


Hammer & Nails

by UltraSwagnus



Series: Hammer & Nails [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: A Single Jojo Reference, Abuse, Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Drama, Flirting, Found Family, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Knives, Medical Procedures, Mild Gore, Organic lifeforms, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Romance, Sex workers, Slow Burn, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2020-05-15 04:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltraSwagnus/pseuds/UltraSwagnus
Summary: Long ago, before the war between the Autobots and Decepticons ravaged the planet of Cybertron, those who belonged to neither faction left to join the stars. To some, leaving their home world meant losing everything they had as a cost to the war. But to others, it was the beginning of a new life. A life that was to be better than the fates given to them on Cybertron.This is the story of those others.





	1. Counterfeit

Along the winding road that spiraled down and around the Satellite, many drove to and from their destinations. Except for one mech, who had no alt mode. His name is Counterfeit, and he walked everywhere he went.

Now Counterfeit was a good mech for the most part. He cared about his close friends, which were family to some degree. Despite the odds he had faced as a monoformer, Counterfeit always had a smile on that generic looking face of his. Like anyone else on that spinning top of a space station, he wasn’t without his own set of flaws. But Counterfeit knew that even with those flaws he was still able to be accepted. And there was a place where he got just that, a place of acceptance. He just called it Shortfuse’s Minor Surgery Center.

The wine colored mech walked along the metal sidewalk, watching as others drove past him. It was in these moments between trips to and from the surgery center that Counterfeit wondered what it was like to have a working t-cog. What did it feel like to actually transform? Did it hurt? Probably not, or else everyone would just be screaming or yelling all the time. Did it hurt _sometimes_ then? He’d asked Shortfuse about it for the millionth time, but he knew he’d get the same response.

“It’s like flippin’ a switch inside of yourself. You hear the sound, parts move around, and you’re something different. There’s not that much to it, kid.”

He laughed. That was Shortfuse alright. Short, sweet, and to the point. Ok, well. He was short, definitely. For Primus' sake the medic only came up to about his knee plates. He wasn’t sweet in the conventional sense, but like they say, there’s more to a mech than meets the eye. And as the monoformer walked past a familiar alley that he had been well acquainted with at one point in his life, something caught that eye of his. Counterfeit turned to see a scrawny mass of grey metal huddled close next to the dumpster. The same dumpster that he was even more acquainted with.

“ _Well, shit. That’s a person_ ,” he thought.

Counterfeit’s legs acted without him knowing, and he found himself standing a few feet away from whoever it was that had their knees pressed tightly into their chest. The sound of someone approaching startled him, and the small mech’s optics met those of a stranger who towered over him with a worried look. Forgetting that the dumpster was next to him, the grey mech pressed hard against it, as if trying to phase through it, but the distance between him and the stranger remained the same.

“Hey, relax! I’m not gonna hurt you,” Counterfeit said. The frightened mech kept his guard up. He had to.

“What’s your name?” the tall stranger asked him.

“...what’s yours?” was the reply.

Counterfeit stifled a laugh as best he could.

“Well, Whats Yours, it’s nice to meet you!” His poorly crafted joke was met with a blank stare. “My name is Counterfeit. That was a joke,”

“I know. It was...very bad.”

And with that the taller mech broke out into a fit of laughter. The smaller of the two smiled awkwardly, his guard slowly relaxing around this person. Part of him felt like he was someone he could trust, like he was actually a good person, but another part reminded him of what happens when you trust certain people. Instinctively, he grabbed at his left arm socket that was still dripping irregular drops of energon through the exposed wiring.

“Hey, are you hurt?!”

“What? Oh, uhm...yeah. I suppose I am," the wounded mech said hesitantly.

“Come with me. I know someone who can help.”

“...but you don’t even know me! You don’t know what kind of person I am, or...or…”

Counterfeit didn’t respond, but instead leaned down and extended his hand. The grey mech, with his only remaining arm, paused for a moment, bewildered by the gesture, then extended his own and clasped it against the larger one. Counterfeit pulled him up off of the metal paving of the alley and set him on his feet.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

“I...yes. I can walk fine.”

“Good. Now let’s go.”

And the pair began to walk out of the alley and onto the metal sidewalk that lead downward towards the lower district of the Satellite. They walked in silence for a little while before the smaller mech spoke up.

“It’s Arsenal, by the way...”

“Hm?”

“My name. It’s Arsenal.”

“Well, Arnie, it— can I call you Arnie?”

“Uh, sure. That’s fine.”

“Well, Arnie, it’s gonna take a little while before we get to the clinic, so how about some conversation to pass the time?”

“Oh. Ok,” Arsenal said with a half-smile. At least he was beginning to feel more comfortable around this new person.

“Great,” Counterfeit beamed. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

Arsenal, still clutching the exposed arm socket, thought for a moment. He wasn’t comfortable answering any questions if it pertained to why he had a missing limb. But, feeling the warmth of this stranger’s, er, _Counterfeit’s_ demeanor, he was willing to chit chat for however long it took to get to this clinic.

“What’s your question?”

“What does it feel like to transform?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's taken me some time to be confident enough in myself to post this story, and i want to thank all of my friends who have been an inspiration and a source of encouragement. i love y'all so much and i hope you enjoy what i'm about to write.


	2. Triage

From the outside, the Minor Surgery Center of Lower Satellite looked a bit rundown. It needed a good cleaning, new panels, better signage, the works. But in it’s defense, the Satellite itself wasn’t in the best condition to begin with. All improvements being made to it while the war progressed was being focused primarily on the upper levels of the space station.

“It looks better on the inside,” Counterfeit assured his new friend. And he was right. It _did_ look better on the inside. A _lot_ better. As it turned out, the medical center was pre-existing and had all the basic equipment anyone would need. It was perfect for Shortfuse, the only original neutral who migrated onto the Satellite with any real experience in medical care. Most of the medical class individuals on Cybertron were ushered into the war efforts. So one would think that meant good business for Shortfuse’s Minor Surgery Center, but not many mechs are overly fond of the idea of their doctor being a nuclear warhead.

“I need a medic!” the wine colored mech hollered as he strode inside.

Slowly but surely, a short, green and dark gold mech with protruding fins along his forearms and legs stepped out of the examination room and into the foyer where he immediately saw Counterfeit. The older mech started to open his mouth to give him some kind of scold-toned remark but his intake shut as soon as he saw the limb-missing, energon dripping bot standing beside him. The nuke twisted his head around.

“Surge, we got company!”

Out from a corridor came another minibot, who Arsenal assumed must have been Surge. He was just about all dark grey in color with a long cord protruding from his helm that dangled down to his waist. His kibble and decorative marks were a dark magenta hue. Surge looked at the three through his equally magenta visor as he walked into the exam room. Like any good nurse, he had to make sure everything was in order before Dr. Anger Management began to work on a patient.

“Come with me,” Dr. Anger Management said as he motioned towards Arsenal. His expression was furrowed and his tone snappy. Looks like someone recharged on the wrong side of the berth this morning.

Arsenal followed the medic towards the examination room with caution, turning only to see Counterfeit giving him that same old smile again and an awkward wave for a brief goodbye. Inside the examination room, Surge had everything laid out on a short, wheeled caddy; metal mesh bandages, energon enriched antiseptic, and the spare soldering tool that worked about half the time.

“Where’s the good one?” Shortfused asked.

“Where do you think?” Surge replied with a twinge of sarcasm in his vocalizer. Shortfuse relayed a gruff sigh of frustration and shook his head. Not again. Not with the medical equipment.

“Alright, have a seat,” the mini medic ordered. Arsenal complied and sat down on the low rising bench, his blue optics still scanning the room to pick up as many details as he could. A strange looking machine here, and some medical object there. His sightseeing stopped as he felt fingers graze through his exposed wiring. Surge thumbed over the ends of some fuel lines that had appeared to have been pinched at the ends to prevent any major leakage.

“Well?” Shortfuse asked the other, washing his servos in an antiseptic rinse.

“Looks like it was torn off.”

“Hm. How can you tell?”

“The ends of the fuel tubes are jagged and uneven. Not something that would happen if it was removed surgically.”

“So what should you do about it?” Shortfuse quizzed as he began to dry his hands with a rag. Surge shot the warhead a glance. What should _he_ do about it? Was he implying that he was going to let Surge do this on his own? For the first time since he started working under him as his nurse in training? According to the look on Shortfuse’s face that was exactly what he was implying. Surge did his best not to show the swell of pride that was spilling out of his spark, but he was so easy to read that his efforts didn’t make much of a difference.

“Well? What are you going to do, Surge?”

Surge looked at what he was now working with and thought for a few nanokliks before turning back to Shortfuse. “I’m gonna reestablish the energon circulation by replacing the missing links with synthetic tubing, and then cover the area with metal-fiber bandages.”

“Alright then. You know where the tubes are.” His arms were crossed and he nodded towards the door. “Go get ‘em.” Surge left with the smallest yet most noticeable smile as he headed towards the back where the storage room was.

“He forgot the energon iv,” Shortfuse said to Arsenal, who had chosen to remain quiet. He was grateful that he was getting the treatment he needed, but his mind was elsewhere, clouded with thoughts of where he was and where he never wanted to be again.

Shorfuse set up the drip with movements so smooth Arsenal could have sworn the doctor could do it in his sleep cycle. Had he actually said this aloud the other would have agreed. At least in a soft-sparked, joking sort of way. Shortfuse was confident in his abilities in mechanical medicine, but deep down he knew he was far from being as skilled or as accurate as the one who taught him.

Oh, how he missed her.

“I’m surprised to see a mech like you here on the Satellite.” Arsenal’s attention was immediately grabbed by the words spoken into the atmosphere of the sterile room. His tank dropped in it’s suspension cables and his spark flicked with anxiousness.

“W-What do you mean?” he asked, debating on whether or not he would regret asking.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he began, securing the energon line of the iv into Arsenal’s wrist intake, “but I’m not the usual type to be setting up ivs for—”

“I try not to judge mechs by their kibble,” Arsenal interjected. He didn’t like where this conversation was going.

“Don’t we all,” the other sighed. “But what I’m gettin’ at is that I’m ex-military. I’ve seen all kinds of mechs during wartime and I can’t think of any Autobot or Decepticon, or any ranking officer for that matter, that’d let you slip by and go awol.”

Yep. It was time to go. Shortfuse was onto him. He knew what he was just by looking at him, and Arsenal could feel the panic rising within his grey, slender frame.

“Calm down, son. I’m not going to say anything to anyone.” This was obviously meant to put the young mech at ease, but it had little effect. The nuke took a clean cloth and doused it with some antiseptic solvent and began to prep the area before Surge returned. He started to chuckle. “Hell, even if you had a faction badge, I’d still make sure you got looked at before you left.”

This confused Arsenal. From what he understood, neutrals weren’t fond of one side or another in some varying degree. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” Shortfuse began, tossing the used cloth into a metal hamper, “that knucklehead out there brought you here.”

“...Counterfeit?”

“That’s right,” the medic nodded. “He’s not the brightest sun in the galaxy but his spark is bright enough. He wouldn’t bring just anyone here unless he knew for sure they needed help.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I told him something similar the day I found him sittin’ next to a dumpster in some alleyway.”

Suddenly, Surge came back in the room with an irritated expression, medical grade tubing in hand.

“What’s wrong?” Shortfuse asked. Surge set the synthetic tubes down on the caddy and shot his mentor the same irritated look.

“That fake cop is back again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gonna try to not write super long chapters because otherwise i'd have more to edit and im not about that life if i don't have to be lmao
> 
> but anyway i hope you enjoyed this chapter! <3


	3. Unwarranted

Counterfeit looked down at the square-helmed bot that glared at him. This wasn’t the first time that he had been given that same look and it made him feel awful each time. He didn’t mean any harm, but the “autobot” didn’t care.

But Shortfuse did.

“What did I say about coming back here?!?” Shortfuse shouted. The motorcycle folded his arms.

“And what did _I_ say about keeping that _criminal_ in check?”

Shortfuse scoffed. “He’s not a criminal. Does he look like a criminal to you?”

Crowbar looked back at Counterfeit who was standing awkwardly to the side, avoiding optic contact like it was the rust plague. He looked back at the minibot.”What he looks like doesn’t matter. He’s a repeat offender of larceny. If he’s not stopped now he’ll only continue to become a menace to society.”

“ _Oh, for frag’s sake_ , he’s got a MENTAL DISORDER.”

Counterfeit didn’t like this. He didn’t like being the center of attention. He didn’t like the yelling, even though he knew Shortfuse couldn’t help it at times. He especially didn’t like being reminded of his kleptomania. He was reminded every day by his own two hands and the anxious thoughts that haunted them.

It started out only happening every once in a while with small things, things people wouldn’t miss. But on those particularly hard days when he was hardest on himself, the compulsions were greater, and the guilt hung over him like the blade of a guillotine.

His tell was obvious. That same smile he’d always give, but with the optics of a mech who knew he had done something wrong. A silent confession he wore on his faceplates. Thankfully, Shortfuse was an understanding mech. He was Counterfeit’s trusted confidant.

“That sounds like an excuse,” the ‘cop’ stated.

Shortfuse sighed and rubbed the space between his optics. “Counterfeit, whatever you took just give it back..”

The tall mech reached into his subspace and pulled out an unofficial, handmade autobot faction badge. He leaned down and handed the badge back to Crowbar, who snatched it into his grasp.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“Yeah, well,” Crowbar began, “‘sorry’ doesn’t cut it this time.” He turned back towards Shortfuse as he affixed the red face of primus onto his abdomen. “I’m here to arrest him.”

“YOU _WHAT?!_ ”

***

“A fake cop?” Arsenal asked.

Surge let out a short laugh. “Yeah. He’s just some autobot wannabe with a weird justice complex. Word on the street is he flunked out of the academy back on Cybertron and makes it everyone else’s problem.”

“Oh.”

There was mostly silence as the powercell worked on his patient. It was a simple procedure to open the ends and reconnect the fuel lines that protruded from the gap where his arm was, but welding the replacement tubing would take a little more time. Mostly because it was Surge’s first time doing something this “complicated” on his own. Hell, Shortfuse wasn’t even in the room to supervise. This was it. This was his moment to prove that he had what it took to be a medic.

“I’m Surge, by the way. Didn’t really get a chance to introduce myself.” 

“Arsenal. A, _ugh_ , pleasure.” Trying not to wince as Surge welded the metal tubes into his circulatory structure was a challenge. The medic-in-training’s servos were a little shaky. He was nervous, obviously.

“Sorry,” he stammered. “ _Good job, Surge_ ,” he thought to himself. “ _Your first solo act and you’re already fragging it up_.”

“So how long have you been working as a medical assistant?” Arsenal asked. He figured that some light conversation would help him to ease up on the shoddy welder. Unfortunately, the question was a bit loaded, and caused Surge to frown a bit. But any good doctor knows not to do that in front of a patient, so he tried to look as focused on his job as best he could.

“For a while now,” he said. It certainly had been a while since the incident, but the wounds, at times, were still as fresh as the day they came to be. “What about you?” he asked, changing the subject. “What do you do for a living?”

“Um, well, I…” Arsenal cursed himself as he scrounged his mental processors for a decent answer. “I do freelance work.”

***

Shortfuse starred Crowbar down with his red optics glowing like the fires of a sun.

“I _said_ , I’m here to arrest him.”

The nuclear missile’s fuel boiled inside of his tank. His energon pressure was skyrocketing by the second. And that was _before_ Crowbar had the audacious bearings to come into _his_ clinic and pull this kind of stunt. But the wheels of thought began to turn inside his domed head and he realized something. So he laughed, causing the other two mechs to look at each other in confusion.

“I don’t think this is funny, Shortfuse,” Counterfeit said, almost a whisper.

“Where’s your warrant?” the minibot asked with a smug look.

Crowbar said not a word. He let the heat rising into his face plating do the talking for him.

“You don’t have one, _do you?_ ” The motorcycle swallowed hard. He did not have a warrant of any kind on him.

“N-No, but I have the authority to—!!”

“You have the authority to get the hell out of my clinic is what you have,” Shortfuse declared. “Does Airstrike know you’re here?!”

Crowbar, again, did not respond. Instead, he turned to Counterfeit with an irritated, almost defeated look. “Stop taking things that aren’t yours. It’s not right,” he spat before leaving. Shortfuse shook his head as the metal door slid shut.

“What a great waste of my time. Ah, well. Better go check on Surge and see how he’s doing.”

As the doctor headed towards the exam room, he was stopped in his tracks by the sound of Counterfeit’s voice.

“Hey, Shortfuse?”

Shortfuse looked back to see the taller mech with an almost sad look about him.

“Am I a bad person?”

Shortfuse’s expression softened a bit.

“No, son. You’re not.”

 

_"You’re far from it."_


	4. Unexpected Turns

Crowbar transformed and rolled out onto the wide, metal paving. He headed towards the middle district of the Satellite where the security office was located. He revved himself out of spite for everyone at that clinic. He was only doing what any law abiding, justice enforcing “officer” would do. Ok, so maybe the whole kleptomania thing changed the scenario a bit, but stealing was still unlawful.

The middle district was much more cramped than the lower and upper sections. It was here that the vast majority of the population lived. It was a collection of housing units, commercial buildings, and the like. It was what many aboard the space station called home. A home away from their beloved Cybertron. As he drove to his workplace, Crowbar thought of these things: where he was now and where he used to be, what he was and what he wanted to be.

Crowbar of Iacon had one dream. He wanted to be an Autobot. He wanted to join their ranks and be a hero, just like all the other big shots and well-known names. He wanted to be looked upon as someone worthy of respect, someone who put fear in the sparks of every wrongdoer who threatened the peace of any cybertronian. So the motorcycle enrolled at the academy, the first stepping stone of achieving his dream.

He was sent home after the first couple of months there. He passed all the written exams and verbal quizzes without difficulty, but there’s more to being an autobot than just knowing laws and passing tests. His skills in mobility were weak, and his aim virtually nonexistent. He couldn’t work well under pressure and his responses to stressful, combat related situations were always panic-driven. He just wasn’t made to be a cop.

But Crowbar didn’t care. He didn’t care what anyone said or thought about him. In his mind, if he just kept trying, kept trying to prove everyone wrong about himself, that one day the badge he had made himself would become authentic.

During his many shifts as one of the Security Office’s interns, he would sit at his cubicle and dream of the day where he would be called “Officer Crowbar,” and be addressed as “sir” and not “hey, intern.” He’d smile as he’d go over and file away reports submitted by the officers under Airstrike’s charge, thinking of that day.

***

“Not bad, Surge,” Shortfuse praised. “The weld lines are almost seamless.”

“What can I say? I learned from the best,” the minibot grinned.

“Well, what about you, son?” the medic asked Arsenal. How’s it feel?”

“It feels a lot better than it did, thank you,” he said, looking back and forth between the two. “I hate to ask about the bill, though,” he admitted.

“Surge, d’ya mind givin’ us some privacy while we iron out the details?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Surge left the room and entered the main lobby where Counterfeit had decided to sit patiently, waiting for his new friend to come out of the examination room.

“How’s he doing?” Counterfeit smiled.

“He’s fine. The procedure went fine,” Surge replied. “Shortfuse said it looked good.”

“I guess I should be calling you ‘doc’ now, huh?”

“Not anytime soon,” the smaller mech chuckled. Surge came around and sat in the same sitting area and propped his pedes up on the small table at its center. After a moment, he chuckled again, drawing in the wine colored mech’s attention.

“What?”

“I was just thinking,” Surge began, “how the first time you bring a mech home he’s a patient and not a date.” This comment made the other flush a bit and avert his eyes.

“C’mon, Surge…”

“I’m serious! We’ve known each other for _how long?_ And not _once_ have I heard anything about you being anything but single. What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch. I’m just...not interested, I guess.”

_Besides, who’d want to date a monoformer?_

***

“You got somewhere to stay, son?” Shortfuse asked.

Arsenal hesitated before answering, weighing the pros and cons of being honest with the doctor.

“I...don’t.”

“I see.”

Shortfuse began to move the wheeled cart out of the way and clean the medical instruments used during Arsenal’s procedure.

“Well, do you want one?”

Arsenal’s optics flickered at the question. He wasn’t used to such blatant hospitality. Part of him wanted to leave. Shortfuse, despite not knowing any details about his situation, already knew too much about him. But part of him wanted to stay. In the short amount of time that Arsenal had spent with Counterfeit, Shortfuse, and Surge, he felt some semblance of safety. Something that he had been longing for for sometime. Had he finally found a place of peace among this ragtag crew of societal misfits? His spark wanted to believe so, and that was the part of him that wanted him to stay.

“Do I... _want_ one..?”

“Maybe that’s the wrong way to put it. Do you _need_ a place to stay?” he corrected, tapping softly on the sealed plating where an arm should be as if to make an unspoken point.

Arsenal, for most of his life, never was given the opportunity to consider his wants and needs. He only knew the priority of following orders and ignoring his own autonomy. He was trained well in that regard. But now that he was on his own, he was able to decide for himself what he would choose to do and with whom. As far as he was concerned, these people were unlike the ones he had been associated with before, and he was glad to be around them.

***

Crobar transformed back into robot mode and walked into the Security Office. He was late for being early for his shift, which meant he didn’t have enough time to read over a few completed reports that had been submitted from the previous one. Oh, well.

The two-wheeler headed straight for his desk and switched on his terminal and clocked in. He sat down on the uncomfortable metal chair that he hated and began his morning routine of checking emails and memos before jumping into the stacks of datapds that had been placed on his desktop in some form of organized disarray. Gotta love those senior officers.

After a few minutes of skimming and scanning, one email in particular caught his optic. It was from Airstrike herself, and she wanted to speak with him as soon as possible. Judging by the timestamp, it had been sent earlier that day before he had arrived.

Crowbar spang out of his chair and straightened his posture, taking determined strides towards Airstrike’s office in the back of the building.

_“This is it_ ,” he thought. “ _Today is the day I get recognized and promoted!_ ”

Everyone that walked past him was but a blur as he approached the door to her office. He knocked, and it opened. He entered, and it closed behind him. And there she was. The Chief of Security herself, Airstrike.

The red jet set down her datapad at the sudden intrusion, then began to take off her spectacles when she fully registered who it was that had come in.

“Crowbar. I’ve been expecting you,” she said solemnly. “Please, have a seat.”

The excited mech did as he was instructed and sat, pin straight. He spark twinkled in his abdominal chamber in anticipation.

Airstrike interlaced her fingers together and gave the shorter mech a serious look.

“It has come to my attention that you’ve been doing some... _off duty work_.”

Crobar didn’t answer, but tried to keep his positive attitude. Though, he couldn’t help but feel his excited smile grow into a nervous one.

“A few officers have relayed back to me that you’ve been spotted in several locations where reports have been submitted detailing suspicious or confirmed criminal activity. Is this correct?”

“Well, I..”

“That’s a ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Y-Yes, ma’am.”

Airstrike sighed. “Crowbar, we’ve talked about this.”

The nervous smile faded into a frown as the motorcycle hung his head.

“I know,” he said almost as a whisper.

“There have,” she began again, “also been complaints sent in by some civilians about you harassing them.”

His helm shot up immediately and his mouth opened to protest, but a silencing hand was raised to stop him. The hand then picked up the datapad and, after a bit of scrolling, placed the device back down onto the desk, turned it, and slid it closer to Crowbar. He took it into his hands and began reading the grievances against him. His spark sang a sad song as he read over them.

“These are misunderstandings!” he objected. “I was only trying to help! Trying to...to deter people from doing wrong!”

“Even if that’s the case, you can’t go around threatening citizens arrests with no authority to do so. For Primus’ sake, you’re a secretary. An _intern_.”

“I’ve been trained,” he said sternly. “I went to the academy.”

“Crowbar..”

“I know how to be a cop.”

“ _No_ , you _don’t_.”

He clenched his hands in his lap as his spark was consumed by anger and frustration.

“I know about your record at the academy.”

There was a long, awkward silence between the two until there was a quick beep from Airstrike’s audial. She raised her hand and manually accepted the call.

“This is Airstrike, go ahead…...That's fine. Page him through.”

Crowbar was unable to hear what exactly the other person on the line was saying, but it was very clear that the person was shouting and very upset for some reason.

“Yes, doctor. I’m handling the situation as we speak…...My sincerest apologies to you and your staff…..It will not happen again, I assure you…..Good day to you as well.”

“ _Aw, scrap_ ,” he cursed to himself.

The call ended as quickly as it had begun, and the head of security shot Crowbar an unhappy look.

“Ma’am, let me explain…!”

“No, Crowbar.”

“He stole from me! I couldn’t just sit there and let him walk away! Even if he is a klepto, that doesn’t excuse the fact that—”

“Wait a second,” the seeker interrupted. “Did you say _klepto_?”

“I was informed that the perp had a mental disorder, so I put two and two together and—”

Airstrike began massaging the space between her optics.

“Are you talking about Counterfeit the Monoformer?”

“...I believe that was his name, yes...why?”

The flier sighed again.

“He’s one of the few citizens here on the Satellite that’s been granted amnesty due to his condition.”

“What!? He’s a thief! A criminal! Who would authorize that?”

“ _I_ did,” she emphasized, shutting up the other immediately. “I got tired of the poor soul trying to turn himself in every other week because he took something small and insignificant.”

Small and insignificant. Crowbar repeated those words in his head over and over again. His badge was neither of those. Not to him.

“I’m going to be blunt with you, Crowbar,” she began, changing the subject, “your actions outside of this building reflects badly not only on yourself, but this entire precinct. I can’t have you going out acting as if you’ve been deputized, and without warrants, no less. We’re not Autobots and this isn't Cybertron.”

Crowbar remained silent. What was he to say? Nothing. There wasn’t anything he could say in defense of himself. Airstrike was now his judge, jury—

“You are being placed on administrative leave.”

—and executioner.

“B-But Chief!!”

“Clean your workstation and head home, Crowbar. You’ll be contacted when it’s time for you to come back.”

He rose with a pout and proceeded to leave.

“Oh, and Crowbar.”

The two-wheeler turned as the door began to slide open.

“Take off that faction symbol.”

And so he did, bitterly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a much longer chapter this time!! sorry 'bout the wait. things are finally starting to fall into place for the actual plot of this work in progress and im excited!! y'all are in for quite a ride so put on your seatbelts, kids. it's gonna be bumpy.
> 
> and a lot of other things lmao


	5. Special Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the hiatus!! i hope this chapter makes up for it ✌️

Among the several places in Lower Satellite, the Circuit Saloon is the most notable. Run by a retired racer named Cassette, the saloon is filled with old trophies, photos, and occasional stories of the racetracks. And it was here that Shortfuse had some business to attend to.

The establishment was filled with it’s regular crowd of tough looking mechs and tired sparks that needed a break from their labors. The warhead strode past tables and booths and headed straight for the bar.

After adjusting himself on one of the bar stools, the green mini gave himself a quick once over in the spare time he had before she’d appear. His frame was still perfectly polished and waxed, and a majority of his scratches and dents he’d accumulated over time had been filled in and buffed out.

He grinned as he watched a powder blue mech carrying a box of glasses emerge from the shadows of the back room. She set the box down on the floor just behind the bar and dusted off her hands. She turned, sensing someone there that hadn’t been before she left. When the ex-racer realized who it was, she returned the grin as she went back to her usual position behind the counter.

 _“Hey there, Shorty,”_ she cooed. “Just the regular...or the _other_ regular?”

The medic reminded himself quickly of his reason for being there before the look in her optics gave him a different one.

“Just the regular, and a little bit of your time,” he replied.

“Time is money, honey,” she said as she turned to the mixing station behind her and began fixing him a glass of the classic pink stuff.

“This won’t take long,” the green mech assured, running his optical scanners along the back of her frame. _Primus,_ she was beautiful.

“Well, for _you,”_ she began, setting the drink down in front of him, “take as long as you’d like.” Her optics flashed a pretty blue, and she leaned against the counter in front of him as she spoke. If he rose a bit and leaned forward he could’ve kissed her, but he wasn’t here for that today, despite everything inside of him wanting that to be the case.

“I’ve got another one for ya,” he said, taking a sip. “Someone who needs a place to recharge and maybe a job if you’ve got a spot available.”

The taller mech let out a short laugh.

“Listen, Shorty. What I was able to do with Counterfeit was a one time deal. I don’t have any extra rooms and I’ve got more than enough help around h—”

Her sentence was stopped in its tracks as she raised an optical plate at the other.

“Is that _scented wax?”_ she asked rhetorically.

He smirked.

“That depends,” he said, leaning in a bit. _“Do you like it?”_

“I think it would smell better in the back,” she opined, motioning to the side with her helm.

“Want to find out?” he flirted back.

 

* * *

  
Crowbar entered his apartment with his spark still buzzing with mixed emotions from his exchange with Airstrike. After fixing the pseudo Autobot badge back onto his abdomen, he received a notification from his audial-comm system. Immediately, all negative feelings he had about his job situation evaporated as he accepted the very long distance call.

“Radar! How are you? I’ve missed you!”

The voice on the other line laughed airily.

“Oh, Crowbar! I’ve missed you too! So very much, sweetspark. I’ve been well, but quite lonely without you.”

The motorcycle meandered towards his sofa and laid comfortably on it as the call with his boyfriend progressed.  
“How much longer are you going to be stationed on that asteroid belt? It feels like you’ve been out there forever..”

Radar was silent for a moment, figuring out what words to say.

“I’m not sure, my dear,” he said with an uncertain tone. “There’s talk of expanding the mining operations for more energon.”

 _“More_ energon?” Crowbar exclaimed. “We’re a space station, not a planet.”

“I know,” Radar agreed, “But I don’t make those decisions.”

“How long are we talking then?”

“Well, Crowbar, that’s really hard to say. With the war going on and our desperation to remain neutral, resources are top priority. If we as a colony, for lack of a better word, didn’t fortify our energon supply we’d be subjected into choosing a side for survival and I’m doubtful that anyone affiliated with our temporary home would want that.”

“If push came to shove we could just side with the Autobots,” Crowbar stated boldly.

“Of course,” Radar agreed again, “but again, I wouldn’t be able to make any call on that.”

“But you’re the Satellite’s Head of Communications and Technology! You’d be able to have some kind of a say in a decision like that.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be just me, darling. It would have to be a majority vote between the other council members and myself. Speaking of council members, how’s Airstrike doing?”

For a moment Crowbar didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to think about Airstrike let alone hear her name coming out of his boyfriend’s mouth.

“Crowbar? Are you still there?”

“She’s...fine, I guess,” the two wheeler answered back. “Listen,” he began, changing the subject. The last thing Crowbar wanted was to explain the Radar that he was sent home under administrative leave. “What if,” he continued, “I took some time off to visit you?”

Crowbar smiled as he waited for what he absolutely knew would be a delighted reaction.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to see you, Crowbar, but things are extremely busy here and I’m afraid that if we were to be reunited, I wouldn’t be able to give you the personal time and affection you so desperately deserve.”

Crowbar’s spark sank in it’s chamber. They’d been apart for months, leaving him feeling touch starved and lonely. Radar was the only one that gave him the time of day. He listened to his rants about Autobot this or evil Decepticon that. Radar genuinely _liked_ him, which was more than what he could say about anyone else that had ever been around him.

Crowbar loved Radar, and he missed him terribly.

“I’m sorry, Crowbar.”

“I get it, I understand,” he replied sorrowfully.

“I have to go back to work now, I’ll speak with you again soon.”

“Ok.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

When Shortfuse returned to the Clinic, he told Counterfeit to take Arsenal to see Cassette. They left, leaving the two minibots alone together.

Surge sat on the couch in the waiting area, feet propped on the table, optics glued to the holovid that hung in the corner. Shortfuse joined him.

“Pedes off the table,” the green mech said as he watched the screen flash an advertisement.

Surge did as he was told, drawing up his arms to fold them across his chest in the process. The power cell clicked his glossa, making the older bot turn his helm.

“Got somethin’ to say?” he asked. The medic knew his assistant well enough to know that he was having an attitude over something. It was a rhetorical question. Shortfuse already knew what it was about.

“Nope,” the dark grey mech answered back. His tone was sarcastic and angry. “But those paint transfers might.”

Shortfuse inspected himself. He had gotten every bit of powder blue off of himself before he came back from the saloon, he had thought. He looked closer at his frame and finally noticed a few splotches on his leg. After he attempted to rub off what he could, he looked back at Surge. The nuke could feel his internal core temperature increase. If he wasn’t careful, he might say something he’d regret.

“Maybe the paint transfers should mind their own business,” he retorted sternly.

“Do you think Syringe would.”

It was more of a bold statement than a question, and it made Shortfuse bite his glossa. It had been a couple million years since _the incident._ Shortfuse had cried his tears and grieved the loss of his conjux. The grieving period had ended for him some time ago, and he had finally moved on towards the next chapter of his life.

Surge, however, was still hanging onto the prologue.

“Syringe would want me to be happy. And I think Doodad and Gizmo would want the same for you.”

Surge whipped his helm around faster than a turbofox chasing a cosmic rabbit.

“You wouldn’t know what they’d want for me,” he hissed.

“Then maybe _you_ should tell me instead of keeping it bottled up inside like you’ve been doing all these millennia.”

The power cell said not a word, he only stared back at Shortfuse. He tried to keep up an angry appearance, that emotional wall he had built over time, but the sorrow began welling up in his optics. The medic could see it through the other’s visor, and he softened his expression as best he could because of it. Shortfuse extended his arm and rested his servo on Surge’s shoulder kibble.

“It’s ok to cry, son,” he said, his own vocalizer choking up.

Surge disagreed within himself and rose from the small sofa to go to his room. Shortfuse sighed as the sound of Surge’s pedesteps faded away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gotta love world building and angst 😎
> 
> did i mention angst? because there's gonna be a lot of it lmao


	6. A Short Lived Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS PHYSICAL ABUSE AND BODILY FLUIDS. PLEASE BE AWARE IF YOU CHOSE TO READ.

“You’re gonna love her, Arnie! She’s so nice.” Counterfeit chirped. “Well, she’s nice to anyone that’s on her good side, really,” the monoformer clarified.

The little grey mech walked fast to keep up with the larger mech’s strides, but listened as the other talked about Cassette and the Circuit Saloon.

Counterfeit was a mech of all trades at the saloon. He took orders, he cleaned, he poured drinks, made attempts at being a handyman, and on occasion, he was the bouncer. Out of all the things he had been hired to do, that last one was what he disliked the most. Counterfeit hated confrontation, and like any other person who felt the same, he had his reasons. He didn’t like having to break up fights between drunks and sometimes having to put his hands on a mech just to get them to leave. But it was rare that things got to that point, as anyone who entered the bar knew that they’d have to deal with Cassette if anything  _ really  _ started getting out of hand.

Cassette was a feisty two-wheeler that was always ready to end a fight, and it was Counterfeit’s job as the bouncer on-call to make sure she stayed where she needed to be, lest the police get notified of a public disturbance. Again.

It wasn’t his favorite thing in the world, but if it meant keeping his boss from pulling out her sonic shotgun to “put someone in their place” then he was more than glad to do it, despite how he personally felt.

But Cassette loved Counterfeit, despite his unrelenting gentleness. Everyone did. The regular patrons of the saloon all knew his name and spoke to him whenever they could. It wasn’t too often that anyone could say that they knew a monoformer, and that’s what brought most folks in. What kept them coming back was how attractive he was. The customers tipped him well when he waited on them or bused their tables, some even being bold enough to flirt with the kind spark. The flirting always caught him off guard and made him feel a bit bashful, but it never made his smile waver.

 

* * *

 

As soon as the pair entered the bar, all optics zoomed in on the wine colored mech. Faces lit up and hands waved in their direction.

“Hey, Sunshine!” shouted one voice. “Who’s that you’ve got there?”

“Don’t tell us you’ve gone and gotten yourself a boyfriend,” said another in jest.

“No, no, he’s just a friend,” Counterfeit answered back, laughing nervously.

_ Friend. _ Arsenal liked that word. And he liked the way Counterfeit said it. It was genuine and honest. The fact that they had only met earlier that day was turning into a minor detail that was gradually becoming irrelevant.

Arsenal never had any friends before, not that he was allowed to have any to begin with. Where he came from, there were only people you unfortunately knew. People that, to him, could only be described as the farthest thing from being a friend. Arsenal was glad that they were far away, especially one of those people in particular. He was glad to be on the Satellite. He was glad to be with Counterfeit.

He was glad to finally have found a friend.

 

* * *

 

 

“Shorty didn’t mention that he was missing an arm,” Cassette stated as she looked at her new employee. “You got any special skills or talents? Experience working in the restaurant biz?”

“I don’t, sorry.” he replied glumly. There was only one thing he had been conditioned to believe he was good at and it wouldn’t help him here. He didn’t want to think about it.

“I see.” She turned to Counterfeit. “Alright, Sunshine. You’re in charge of him. He’ll start tomorrow. I’ve got a shipment of supplies coming in and I could use him, even if he’s missing a piece.”

“I’m sure he’ll come in  _ handy _ . Right, Arnie?” he asked,  nudging the other while stifling a laugh.

“I hope so,” the shorter mech began.  _ “I’ve only got one.” _

Counterfeit burst into laughter, and Arsenal found himself smiling a bit. It wasn’t a good joke, but his  _ friend  _ seemed to find amusement from it.

“Now,” the retired racer interrupted, “I don’t have any extra rooms but Counterfeit’s should be big enough for the both of you. There’s a pull out berth from the side wall paneling.”

Arsenal’s old life was over. The past was the past. He was free. His new life was beginning.

And he was happy.

 

* * *

“Sorry about the mess,” Counterfeit stammered. “I didn’t think I’d be having any guests over today, let alone a new roommate.”

“It’s ok,” Arsenal assured, “It looks...lived in.”

That was one way to put it. Counterfeit’s room was quite spacious, but the spaciousness of the room was dwarfed by the sheer amount of stuff that was scattered about it. It looked more like a miniature junkyard than a berthroom.

The monoformer nervously began moving things around to make room for the pull-out berth on the side wall of the room. He had never been so mortified in his life. Everything he moved out of the way was something he had stolen, mostly from off the street and, worse case, from stores or actual people.

He hated this. He hated having to do this. He hated doing this in front of Arsenal, even though he knew the other had no idea where any of this stuff had come from. The idea of Arsenal finding out filled him with dread. What would he think of him? What would he think if he really knew who he was?

The taller mech did his best to push these thoughts back deep within himself as he always had as he finally moved enough junk to get the spare berth to pull out. He had never used it before, being the only one to use the room, so it wasn’t a surprise that the fixture wasn’t so easy to move. But Counterfeit was fairly strong, so it wouldn’t take long before he could get it out.

“Are you a collector or something?” Arsenal asked, his blue optics scanning the room. There was so much stuff in here. Random odds and ends. Spare parts, baubles, trinkets, and a whole lot of other things. There wasn’t any sense of organization as far as the grey mech could tell.

“Uhhh, I guess you could say that,” Counterfeit responded, still trying to pull out the metal slab from out of the wall. “Hey, Arnie,” he interrupted, changing the subject, “remember when I asked you what it was like to transform way earlier today?”

“...yes.”

“Well, my collecting habits are, um, something that I don’t like to talk about.”

“Fair enough,” said Arsenal. 

Counterfeit felt terrible. He was having to lie again to cover up his actions. Eventually, the one armed mech would find out and think of or treat him differently. It was only a matter of time.

_ “Wow, _ this is dusty,” the monoformer exclaimed, finally pulling the spare recharge slab out of the wall. “You can use mine for n—” He stopped to look at the other, only to realize he had been standing in the doorway this whole time. “Don’t be a stranger, Arnie! You can come in. It’s your room, too,” he smiled. 

Truth be told, the smaller mech was still trying to figure out if this was all a dream or not. He wasn’t used to this kind of treatment. He had never known anyone to be so...so  _ nice _ . 

To  _ him _ . 

Arsenal walked in and went straight for the berth. He had never slept on one before. He had never been given one. There was only one problem with this one, though. It was a little too high for him to climb onto. At least with one arm.

“Hey, Counterfeit..”

“Yeah, Arnie?” he asked, rummaging through his subspace for something to wipe off dust and grime.

“Can you give me a hand? Or two.”

Counterfeit turned to see the problem. He felt kind of stupid for not thinking about it sooner.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that, “ He extended his arm and opened his palm upwards to be used as a prop. “One hand should do the trick, I think.”

Arsenal smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

Several days had gone by and Arsenal had started to relax a bit more in his new surroundings. Life at the Circuit Saloon was wonderful. He got paid, he was treated like an actual person, but most importantly, Counterfeit was always close by whenever he needed him.

“If you need any help, let me know,” he’d tell him with that same smile that he always gave. Every time he saw it, the grey mech felt like there was hope in the world. It was so warm and genuine, and it gave Arsenal a feeling that was unfamiliar to him. He didn’t know what it was, but the feeling was always there when he was around the monoformer. 

He liked the feeling, whatever it was. It made him feel the opposite of what he had  always been made to feel. It made him  _ forget things _ . 

His current thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Counterfeit had gone to the back to get some more supplies for Cassette, leaving him to be the one to welcome folks in. He turned to greet whoever it was that had just walked in and prepared to execute the routine he had been taught: greet them, seat them, treat them well. Counterfeit taught him that. But when Arsenal saw who had entered the bar, his spark nearly flickered out on the spot. Fear consumed him and he became paralyzed. He attempted to move himself on trembling legs to escape once again from her, but it was too late. Their optics had already met.

“Don’t just stand there, hun,” said Cassette from behind the bar. Arsenal turned to look at the ex-racer with a blank stare, his optics screaming in silence. “Go on.”

Oh, how he wanted not to be anywhere near her let alone voluntarily approach her. But because he was scared, because they were in a public setting, because Cassette was watching, he did as he had always been known within himself to do. Arsenal did as he was told.

He approached Traffic and tried convincing himself that she was just another customer and not who she actually was to him, but he couldn’t do it. Not with all the things she had made him do.

Or the things she had done to  _ him _ . 

As he stepped closer, his thoughts became sporadic and panic driven. Where was Counterfeit? Why was he taking so long in the back?

“Arsenal,” she said flatly. “I’m glad I found you.”

Arsenal said nothing. He just stared into those burning red optics of hers.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” she continued, flatly. The hulking mech exited the bar, leaving Arsenal alone and dead inside.

 

* * *

 

 

Counterfeit returned from the back with two cases of engex. The glasses clinked against one another from the  inside as he sat them on the counter. He grinned, feeling quite pleased with himself. Sure, doing heavy lifting was easy enough, but the satisfaction of being of help to anyone made such tasks much more rewarding.

After he had set them down, he looked over at Cassette, who was cleaning out some empty glasses with a rag. She looked irritated and disappointed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking about the place to see if maybe he could figure it out for himself. Then, he realized something.  “Where’s Arnie?”

“He’s gone, Sunshine. He quit.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know. He left with someone not too long ago. He wanted me to tell you ‘thank you’ for all the help.”

Counterfeit tried to smile at that last part, but he didn’t have it in him to do it. This didn’t make any sense at all. Arsenal seemed quite happy to be there at the saloon and spending time together when they weren’t working. Even with his timid and introverted nature, Arsenal had begun to be more talkative with the larger mech, occasionally even having small talk with Cassette and even a customer or two. Why would he just...leave like that?

Counterfeit frowned.

 

* * *

 

Arsenal sat in the passenger seat inside of Traffic, holding his knees as closely into his torso as he could with one arm. It was a quiet ride to the top of the space station and the silence yelled in the grey mech’s audio receptors. There was no telling what the bruiser was going to do to him.

They reached the top of the Satellite where ships could come and go freely. Arsenal felt an emotional numbness as Traffic’s cargo ship came into view. She pulled up beside it, then opened her passenger side door. Arsenal slid down onto the metal platform of the space port, where he heard the awful sound of her transformation behind him.

“Get moving.”

Her vocalizer outputted an angry tone, one that he was all too familiar with. As he walked up the metal ramp to the rear hatch of the craft, he could feel the vibrations of her pede steps on the metal slat. As they entered and the hatch sealed them in, Arsenal receded back inside of himself once again.

He knew it was too good to be true. Having a friend and people who cared about him. Being happy for once in his miserable life. It was like a cruel joke, and no one was laughing.

He felt a blunt force upon his back plates, then found himself hitting the floor and sliding into the internal hull of the ship. His vision flickered as his mental  processors sped up to register what had happened. Then the pain began to register and centralize where he had been struck. He knew there had to be a massive dent. As he struggled to get on his knees, his mind went to Shortfuse, and how he had fixed his exposed socket joint.

Arsenal looked up at Traffic who had that cold, unforgiving expression. His optics then detected a quick movement and recognized it as her heavily plated pede slamming into his torso, pressing him closer into the siding. Screeches of metal on metal shrieked inside of the ship. Traffic released her pede and squatted down at the smaller mech who was now vomiting his own energon. She tutted. 

“You see, Arsenal? This is what happens when you run away.”

She cupped his chin in her grip and gave a reminding squeeze with her thumb and forefinger. Oral solvent mixed with energon trickled on and over  her black gauntlets as the poor spark’s ventilation system hiccuped. Traffic’s red optics scanned over the patchwork done on Arsenal’s left side. 

“Looks like somebody had a doctor’s appointment.”

He whined sharply as the pressure on his jaw increased.

_ “What did you tell them?” _ she asked maliciously.

“Nothing!!!” Arsenal sobbed, the tears he had been holding back finally streaking down his face.

Traffic let go of him and rose as the crying mech used his remaining arm to protect himself from any possible assault.

“Good,” she hissed. “I’d hate to do to you what I did to my last  _ gun _ .”

 

* * *

 

Counterfeit lied on his berth and stared at the ceiling as he waited for his sleep mode to kick in. His fingers were laced and rested on his chest. He turned his helm to look at the spare berth that he had yet to put back into the wall. It was empty now.

“Goodnight, Arnie.”


	7. The People You Know

His administrative leave had ended, and Crowbar was asked to return to the Security Department. He sat at his desk and began his usual routine as if he had never left to begin with. He had thought a lot while he was away, mostly about himself. He knew if he wasn’t careful, he could possibly be terminated.

He didn’t want that, so he decided to _play it cool_. In order for him not to receive anymore complaints against him, whether they be from licensed officers or civilians, he needed a different approach. He needed to change his tactics. That meant no more listening to police scanners or following suspicious personnel through confirmed areas with high criminal activity. He had to be—

— _a vigilante._

It was simple. By day, he would be the good little secretary everyone begs him to be, but by night, he’ll become a savior in the shadows. Crowbar smiled at this thought as he read his emails, trying to pay attention to them.

He’d need a secret identity. Possibly a new name, and a new look.

But the real question he asked himself was whether or not he would incorporate his handmade Autobot insignia into the concept. Would it be a dead giveaway that it was him? Probably so, since he had created for himself an infamous reputation of being the Satellite’s very own “fake Autobot cop.” 

He figured he could work out the details later.

 

* * *

 

 _“Crikey,”_ the beastformer exclaimed. “She sure put a numbah on you, didn’t she?”

Arsenal didn’t respond. He never really talked to Snaggletooth anyway. And he certainly didn’t want to talk about what Traffic had done to him. He wanted to go back to forgetting.

He wanted to go back to Counterfeit.

The Crocodile finished popping the dents out of Arsenal as best he could. It was still obvious that his frame had suffered physical stress, but Snaggletooth was a medic that couldn’t care less about personal aesthetics. Traffic had told him to patch him up, not make him look like he was fresh off the conveyor belt, so that’s what he did. The beastformer was smart enough to do what he was told.

“Now, let’s go about fixing that arm a’ yours.”

Instinctively, Arsenal grabbed at his fixed socket.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bleed out,” the medic said, walking over to a storage unit in the room. He opened it, taking out an arm that was decorated with gun barrel kibble. “How did you manage to take it off, anyway?”

It was a long and painful process. Arsenal had used one of the sealing doors on the ship to clamp down on the appendage, then twisted and pulled until the metal had become malleable enough to rip. But he wasn’t about to tell Snag that. He wouldn’t have cared anyway. At least not in a genuine sense.Snaggletooth only cared about three things; smoking, drinking, and doing whatever Traffic told him to do so he could continue smoking and drinking in peace. 

The title ‘medic’ was used loosely for him. He was more of a mech of all trades. Despite what anyone called him, he was of value to Traffic, and that was enough to keep him alive.

“Not gonna talk, ey?” he asked. “Well, maybe it’s for the best. After all, too much talk will get a mech killed nowadays.”

As the crocodile approached him closer with his old arm, his grip on where Surge had patched him up grew tighter. The larger mech set the arm down next to him on the table the grey mech was sitting on, then turned to a wall of miscellaneous tools and equipment. He grabbed a handheld saw and a welder.

“I’m out of analgesic solution, so try to think a’ something pleasant,” he said. “Now, be a champ and move your hand.”

Arsenal sat there, looking up and the thick-plated mech with pleading, lubricating eyes.

“Oh, come now, Arsenal. Don’t gimme that look,” Snaggletooth said. “You’re lucky she hasn’t sent you off to be smelted. Be grateful she wants me to put your arm back on and not take your head off,” he added.

Tears began to fall from blue optics at the words. The medic rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“Cripes sake, Arsenal, don’t cry. You know I can’t stand it when you cry.”

Arsenal lowered his head and moved his remaining hand to his intake, biting down on a knuckle. He winced as he heard the saw blade’s motor turn on. The weapon offlined his optics and tried to imagine he was back at Shortfuse’s Minor Surgery Center, but as soon as the spinning metal touched his frame the dream disappeared in a whirl of pain. He bit down to hold in a yell and stifle a cry. _“Pain builds character,”_ he had heard Snag say before.

His thoughts became frantic, trying to focus on something to distract him from the ungentleness that was this operation. Then, he heard a soft voice from deep within his spark.

_“If you need any help, let me know.”_

Counterfeit had said that to him, and he meant it. But Counterfeit was so far away. How could he possibly help him?

_Unless.._

 

* * *

 

“I’m going out for lunch,” Airstrike had said to Crowbar. “You should come with me.”

He couldn’t recall a time that Airstrike had invited him out to lunch, so he was taken back a little at the offer. But he wasn’t about to decline. She was his superior, and he had given her enough trouble as it was. Crowbar felt like he was obligated to go, whatever her reasoning was.

They sat across from each other at a booth inside of a diner not too far from the station. As they waited for their orders to arrive, the motorcycle couldn’t help but worry about what the occasion was for this. Perhaps his absence from the Security Department’s office had made her realize how replaceable he was. He was sure that whoever had been filling in for him while he was forced to be away had done a decent job. His assigned duties weren’t that difficult. Was he finally being let go?

“Crowbar, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Hold on, Airstrike,” the two-wheeler began, “I want...to say something first.” 

The jet gave him a confused look as the waitress finally sat their orders down on the table.

“Alright then,” she responded.

Crowbar laced his fingers together and looked down at his plate, unwilling to look at his boss in the optics.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, being dismissed from work and all, and I wanted to apologize.”

Airtrike’s expression softened as he spoke.

“I know..that at times I can be a bit persistent and, uh, assertive towards people...but I’m only doing what I believe is right.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he continued before she could get a single word out.

“I know I didn’t make it at the Autobot Academy of Iacon. I know I’m... _a failure._ And even if I’m not... _a real cop, “_ he said sorrowfully, before knocking a clenched fist into his metal chest, “I feel like I’m one in _here._ In my _spark.”_

“Crowbar..”

“Before you give me the pink slip, allow me to formally resign, so that it will reflect better on me when I look for a new job.”

“I’m not letting you go,” the seeker said. “I just need to ask you about something.”

Crowbar felt a bit foolish after giving that short speech, but also felt relief that he wasn’t being fired.

“O-Oh,” he stammered, taking a small bite of his lunch.

“I want you to tell me about your past.”

He swallowed and took a sip of his beverage, thinking of the best way to start his story. He couldn’t help but smile a bit, thinking back on it.

“Well,” he began, “When I first got to the academy, I was shocked at how big it was. I thought it was a titan,” he laughed. “I—”

“No, Crowbar. Your _other_ past. The one before you became enrolled at AAI.”

Suddenly, Crowbar lost his appetite.

And his desire to talk.

“Everyone’s heard about you being the wannabe Autobot both before the war and now, here on the Satellite. But I want to know if the things I’ve heard about you before you attempted to become an autobot are true.”

Crowbar sank down into his seat, his spark with him.

“I don’t do those things anymore,” he said defensively.

“I know. And I believe you. I just need to know if you’re as good with highly encrypted information as your so-called criminal record has made you out to be.”

“I was told that my records wouldn’t be used against me after I went through the rehabilitation program,” he stated. He was beginning to feel like he was being backed into a corner.

_Again._

“I’m not trying to use it against you, Crowbar.” Airstrike sighed. “Look, I’ve got something classified that’s been brought to my attention, and those bozos up at Communications don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Have you tried contacting Radar?” the motorcycle suggested. The Head of Security gave him a look.

“You think I haven’t? He’s nearly impossible to get a hold of, and only calls to report status updates from our offsite asteroid belt facility. But I’m sure you already knew that.”

He did.

Crowbar missed Radar terribly and waited for each second to pass by until he would receive the next call from his beloved satellite dish.

“I need you, Crowbar,” Airstrike said, changing the subject. “You’re the only one I can trust with this. It could be important.”

The anxiety and dread that had been dwelling within him during this conversation melted away, and his spark began to burn brightly. He pushed his plate of fuel to the side of the table and looked up at Airstrike with a determined look.

“What do you need me to do?”


	8. Memories

“I am _so_ excited!” Doodad exclaimed. “It’s been forever since we’ve been off world!”

“Uh-huh,” Surge said, reading over a checklist that was sent to him by Syringe. He was going over supplies that would need to be packed up and taken to this so-called space station versus equipment that would already be provided at their new facility. As his optics scanned over the list, it became apparent to him that most of the large equipment was already available, and that the only things that really needed to be brought were smaller tools and appliances.

“Surge, are you even listening?” The blue powercell asked with a pout.

“Probably not,” said Gizmo, their pink sparkmate. “ _Workaholic,_ ” she teased aloud.

Surge smiled as he continued to look over the transport inventory list. Syringe had promised them that after they had settled into their new clinic that they would have some time off. Everyone had been working non-stop while the Armistice between the Autobots and the Decepticons was in effect, making the necessary preparations to leave Cybertron before the two factions would inevitably ravage the planet.

“I’m listening,” Surge corrected. “I’m just going over everything before Syringe and Shortfuse get back.” Gizmo walked over and took the data pad out of his hands, and activated the camera setting.

“Doodad, come here,” She encouraged, pressing herself close to Surge’s side, placing her free arm around his waist.

“We have work to do,” he laughed, easing into Gizmo’s touch.

“One picture won’t hurt,” Gizmo assured. Doodad pranced over and glomped onto Surge’s other side. He placed his lips onto his sparkmate’s cheek and Gizmo took the picture.

 

* * *

 

Surge stared at the picture on his old data pad. Every so often he would go back to it, and every so often it made his spark ache. He could still feel the remnants of their sparks mingling within his spark chamber. It was his only comfort, but at times it wasn’t so comforting. It was a bittersweet reminder. Shortfuse had offered to take him to the Upper Satellite’s hospital unit to have their spark fragments removed, but he refused. Surge did not want to let go.

His attention was directed to a knock at the door. He darkened the screen of the device and set it down on his berth. The room was still a mess, and he had let himself get distracted by memories of the past. But that wasn’t much of a surprise to him.

He went over to the door and pressed a button on the control panel that was mounted on the wall. The door slid open. He expected it to be Shortfuse, but he found himself looking straight into Counterfeit’s thighs.

“My optics are up here, Surge,” the monoformer giggled. Surge shook his head and stepped to the side, allowing the taller mech entry. Counterfeit came in and sat on the small berth, which, compared to him, could’ve been mistaken for a bench.

“No matter how many times you tell it, that joke will never be funny,” Surge replied lightheartedly. He continued to clean as Counterfeit made himself comfortable. It had been a while since they had spent some time together. Surge wasn’t one to openly admit a lot of things, but he had missed his friend.

With Arsenal gone, Counterfeit has been given more shifts at the saloon to cover, which he gladly took, but that meant less visits to the clinic to spend time with his favorite minibots.

“Arsenal thought it was funny,” Counterfeit corrected. 

“Well, his sense of humor was just as bad as yours so I don’t doubt it.”

“I like to think our sense of humor is _advanced_ ,” he said, his optics catching hold of a datapad sitting next to him.

“Uh-huh.”

Surge continued cleaning the junk off of the floor and organizing them onto his shelving unit. Most of what he had were electronic tomes of Cybertronian medical practices, first aid, diseases, and the like. All given to him by Shortfuse, which had been handed down to him from Syringe.

It wasn’t until after the pair had arrived and settled on the Satellite that he had gotten into medicine. Shortfuse, having been trained under Syringe, assumed the role of doctor. And every good doctor needs a nurse, so Shortfuse asked Surge if he would be willing. Surge agreed, despite not wanting to at first. But Shortfuse was glad that he accepted the offer. The nuke knew it would be better for the broken sparked mech to keep occupied despite the tragedy, and teaching Surge all that Syringe had taught him was his own way to stay busy.

Counterfeit’s hand found its way onto the old datapad sitting next to him. It was small and outdated. His cooling fans turned on to the lowest setting as his internal core temperature began to rise. He was getting another urge.

His optic ridge furrowed as adrenaline flooded his fuel lines. His mind flashed impulsive messages of _“take it”_ as his hand caressed the smooth surface of the screen. Surge’s back was turned from him, so he easily could just snatch the small device up and cram it into his subspace. As the thoughts continued to fill him with anxieties, he accidentally activated the touch motion sensor on the screen. He looked and saw a picture of Surge with two other power cells. One was pink with yellow accents, while the other was a dark blue hue with green secondary colors. He knew they had to be Gizmo and Doodad. 

Counterfeit had heard the names on occasion through Shortfuse. Apparently, the transport ship that they were on, along with Shortfuse’s conjunx, had some kind of accident, leading to their deaths. He had read an article about it in a news projector he had stolen shortly after arriving on the space station.

Counterfeit realized the datapad had too much sentimental value and began to dismiss the thoughts telling him to swipe it. It was something personal of Surge’s, not just some random thing.

“Hey, Surge,” he began. Surge turned around to see Counterfeit leaning forward, handing the datapad over to him. He took it and saw the image of his sparkmates on screen once again. “Will you tell me about them?”

 

* * *

 

“Slacking off, I see,” the paramedic helicopter jested as she walked in.

“You know it, Boss,” Gizmo replied, handing the datapad back to Surge.

“You should take a picture with us, Syringe!” Doodad exclaimed. Syringe chuckled.

“Ah, I’ve never liked having my picture taken. I’m not very photogenic, I think.”

“Well, pardon me, but I’d say you think wrong,” said a different voice.

The voice came from her conjux, Shortfuse. The tall mech giggled at him and blushed a bit.

“Oh, _Sweetfuse_ ,” she sang, turning to lean down to her minibot and giving him a kiss.

“I’ve finished going over the list you sent,” Surge announced.

“Wonderful! Thank you, Surge,” the helicopter said.

“Did you get the boarding passes?” Gizmo asked. This question caused Syringe’s happy expression to diminish.

“Ah, yes. About that..”

“We got ‘em, but apparently it was just too difficult to get five tickets for the same ship,” Shortfuse fumed. He and Syringed had been waiting in a line all morning just to be informed that five passes for one ship was not going to happen. So many people had already gotten theirs, and they were told that they were lucky to have gotten any at all. “We were able to get two passes for one ship and three for another.”

“Shortfuse and Surge will depart first, and then you two will come with me,” Syringe clarified. “It’s what we were able to get.”

“We’re gonna be separated?!” Doodad exclaimed, clinging tightly to Surge’s arm.

“Only for a day or two. We’ll all meet up on the Satellite after our ship arrives,” Syringe answered.

Doodad did not like the sound of that. None of her power cells did. Power cells tended to stay in groups, and even more so if they were in a relationship with one another. But there wasn’t anything they could do about it. They would just have to be patient while they were traveling and reunite at their destination.

Surge was glad that Doodad would be with Gizmo, at least. The blue power cell tended to be clingy and whiny at times, so he’d have one of his sparkmates to comfort him. Surge, however, couldn’t ignore the sadness of traveling without either of them. Sure, he had Shortfuse, but during the past week of preparations he had been occupying his mind with thoughts of holding hands with them while looking out their ship’s window, sitting close together while trying to get Doodad to keep his hands to himself, recharging in their altmodes...

Surge sighed. Why did he have to be such a romantic?

 

* * *

 

Surge took the datapad from Counterfeit and stared at the image once more. That bittersweet image…  
  
“Um,” Surge began. How _was_ he going to begin? He never really talked about them to anyone since he had learned about the incident. And he never really expected anyone to openly ask him about them. Shortfuse had tried and tried to get him to open up, but he pushed him away as he always did.

Shortfuse had no problem about talking about Syringe in a casual setting from time to time. If Counterfeit was around, he’d ask the medic a question or two about her, and he would go off on a tangent or start to tell some kind of story about her. 

Surge liked it when he told stories about her. It was almost comforting to listen to. Depending on which story he was telling, Surge would remember being there, too. With Gizmo and Doodad.

Maybe if he talked about them to Counterfeit...he’d get some kind of comfort from it.

It was worth a shot.

“Well,” he continued, looking at his smiling face in the picture. He was so happy back then. “The pink mech is Gizmo and the blue one is Doodad.” ‘Is?’ ‘Was?’ He wasn’t sure what tense to use for the deceased. Present tense felt better, though. Like they were still around.

“Gizmo was...strong. Not just physically, but emotionally. She was caring and supportive. She always had the right words to say. Doodad, on the other hand,” he chuckled a little, “..you and him would have been good friends. You’re both idiots.” That made Counterfeit laugh. “But he was really sweet. Very, uh, touchy-feely. He was affectionate, I’ll put it that way.”

He paused, feeling the small smile he had while talking about them fade into a frown. He must have said too much, as his optics began to lubricate. The image on the old datapad became blurry through his visor. His trembling hands weren’t helping much either.

“I miss them so much,” he said, trying not to start sobbing. He could feel a few tears rebel against him as they slid down his cheek. He quickly wiped them away. He didn’t want to talk about them anymore. He had said enough.

Counterfeit reached into his subspace and pulled out a handkerchief that he may or may not had swiped from someone. He extended it to Surge. Surge looked up at the gesture and gave a small smile. Taking the small bit of fabric, he raised his visor and wiped his eyes. Surge began locking those feelings away once more as he finished, handing the handkerchief back to the monoformer.

There was a silence that fell over them in Surge’s room, one with a somber atmosphere.

“I miss Arnie,” Counterfeit confessed. He played with the cloth in his hands as he looked down at it. He was smiling a little, but his optics frowned.

Surge took this as an opportunity to change the subject and focus on the other.

“So what was _he_ like? I didn’t spend as much time with him as you did, so I only know him as being really quiet and kinda introverted.”

Counterfeit’s face lit up.

“Arnie was a great listener! I talked to him so much about all kinds of stuff when we were off shift together. He wasn’t very talkative, which was fine. He said he liked it better when I was talking. He did do his best when talking with customers, though. I think they helped him open up a little. The regulars seemed to like him. Cassette liked him.” 

Counterfeit began to smile a little more. He liked Arsenal, too.

He liked him a lot.

“He always laughed at my jokes. I remember one time when we were doing the dishes together, he asked me to give him a hand. And I asked him, ‘Do you want one or two?’ And do you wanna know what he said?” Counterfeit asked, doing his best not to break out into a fit of laughter.

Surge raised an optical ridge. “What did he say..?”

“He said, ‘ _Three!_ ’” Counterfeit snorted, slapping at his knee. “Can you believe that!? Three!! Gosh, he’s such a riot,” he laughed.

Surge shook his head. Terrible. Absolutely terrible. Not funny in the slightest. Surge wasn’t sure if “advanced” was the right word to describe their sense of humor.

“And you two were _just_ roommates?”

Counterfeit reddened a little at the question.

“ _Yes_ ,” he replied. “We were _just_ roommates. There was no funny business going on between us while he was here, promise..”

“If you say so,” Surge replied, not totally convinced. 

 

* * *

 

Arsenal laid on the pull-out berth and sighed. What a day.

“Last minute rushes are always the worst, huh?” Counterfeit asked, sitting on his own berth and stretching.

The gunformer couldn’t help but steal a glance at the other while he reclined into his berth. His friend sure was a handsome mech.

“I’ll say,” Arsenal responded, fixing his gaze back up at the ceiling. “I didn’t know power cells were a bunch of partybots.”

Counterfeit laughed.

“Oh, yeah. Apparently when they get together all they wanna do is drink or dance or sing.”

“But not Surge?”

“Well, Surge is different. He’s kind of a loner, I guess. Shortfuse says he wasn’t always like that, though. Before his conjunxes died..”

“Oh, I see.”

A brief silence fell over the pair before the smaller mech broke it.

“..What about you?” Arsenal dared to ask.

“Hm?”

“Do you, uh, have anyone special like that?”

Counterfeit blushed and grinned at the thought.

“Oh, no! No, no. I’ve never, uh...had anyone, really.” He chuckled nervously. “I guess I’m kind of a loner, too.”

Arsenal couldn’t believe it. Counterfeit was so nice and quite the looker, yet he’d never been courted before? _Wow._

“That’s a shame,” Arsenal blurted out.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because...anyone would be lucky to have you as a courtmate.”

Arsenal felt a wave of heat rising to his faceplates as he ended the sentence. He hoped Counterfeit didn’t think he was referring to himself. Although, it wasn’t such a bad thought, right? As a hypothetical, he clarified to himself. He and Counterfeit were just friends, after all. 

“Arnie, stop! You’re gonna make me blush, haha..”

Ah, but it was too late. The monoformer already was. He was never good at accepting compliments, but Arsenal’s always sounded different. Like his compliments were ok to believe. Maybe it was because during the past couple of weeks they had become such good friends. Yeah, that had to be it.

“Anyone would be lucky to date you, too, y’know..!”

“I doubt it,” Arsenal disagreed.

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t sell yourself short, Arnie. You’re a great guy, really!”

Arsenal had spent a majority of his life hating himself for what he was and the things he had done. Traffic had ingrained in him that he didn’t have any real worth aside from being a tool for her to use. Counterfeit was starting to make him feel like all of that was a lie.

Arsenal turned his head to look at him.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Counterfeit said, looking back at the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a whole month since i've added a chapter. blah blah work and spoons. this one turned out a bit long imo, and i had to cut some scenes out. don't worry, those scenes will be in the next chapter. it'll be more plot focused and not, uh, "filler-y."
> 
> i do hope you liked this chapter, though!!


	9. Three Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has implied dubcon. Please be aware while reading.

Radar’s colleagues on the Satellite were all too familiar with Crowbar’s presence. Before the Head of Communications and Technology went overseeing mining operations at the offsite asteroid belt facility, Crowbar would visit the CT Building often just to see him. 

Synchron hated Crowbar. He hated everything about him. He hated the way he made Radar laugh. How he made Radar look at him. How he could come in on a whim and take Radar’s beautiful mind away from his work. The Lieutenant despised Crowbar. Crowbar was an idiot. A moron. And now, said moron was parading around his workspace once again, this time with Security Chief Airstrike behind him.

“To what do I owe _this_ pleasure?” Synchron asked with his deep voice. He tried to sound genuine and not sarcastic in the slightest.

“Official business,” Crowbar answered proudly. “I need the main terminal.”

Synchron turned his screen-face at Airstrike, looking for an actual statement of official business.

“This is the solution I emailed you about,” she said.

“ _Him?_ ”

“That’s right.”

The empurata laughed.

“Forgive me, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is some kind of joke.”

“It’s not a joke,” Airstrike emphasized. “Take Crowbar to the main console and show him the encrypted file. Do whatever he asks. This is a matter of Security now.”

The slender mech gave a blank look, which was for the best, and led Crowbar past a series of doors into a larger room with a massive computer layout. It featured a large screen and a control panel with keyboards, buttons, and switches. Crowbar had never used something of this scale before. But if push came to shove, he would use his... _special ability_. 

“Airstrike briefed me on the situation, but I’d like to hear your account, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, of course.”

Synchron sounded happy to help, but he was far from it. This was yet another invasion from Crowbar. Had it not been for Airstrike’s intimidating frame lurking about, he would have had Crowbar escorted out immediately by one of the guards. He could feel his antenna twitch with irritation.

“Early this morning, we received an encrypted file from an unknown source. My team and I have been working endlessly trying to retrieve the information from it, but all we have managed to do is extract notifications from the network’s firewall system.”

“Sounds like a virus,” said the motorcycle.

“Yes, well, we won’t know for sure unless we, or,” Synchron bit his metaphorical tongue, “ _you_ , I should say, open the file safely and extract the data.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

Synchron scoffed internally. Had it been “ _easy enough_ ” he would have been able to do it himself. Feeling petty, the PDA decided to... _make a comment_.

“Yes, I’m sure it does. I’ve tried contacting Radar about the matter, but he’s rather difficult to get in touch with, _which I’m sure you’re familiar._ ”

Ah, and here we go. The passive-aggressive comments that Crowbar was surprised to have taken this long to emerge. It must have been because Airstrike was here, and that they were now alone in the console room. 

“I’m familiar with a lot of things about Radar, Synchron. Intimate, personal things about him that you’ll never get to know.” Crowbar’s optics remained fixated on the screen, his fingers dancing away at the control panel as he made his remark. Feeling cocky, he made another. “Perhaps you’d be able to do this yourself if you had paid better attention to how Radar worked with encrypted files instead of just his aft,” Crowbar then turned towards the taller mech and gave him a serious look, “... _which I’m sure you know I am also familiar_.”

Synchron _loathed_ Crowbar. How dare he not only insult his technological ability, but he had the _gall_ to flaunt their relationship in such a crude way. What did Radar even see in this... _this…?!_

“You know, it’s kind of funny,” Crowbar continued. “How in the world could someone as smart and as beautiful as Radar be with someone like _me_.” Crowbar laughed. “For Primus’ sake, _I’m just a secretary_ ,” he said with a slight smirk.

_...ARROGANT TWIT!!_

“I’ll leave you to your work. If you’ll excuse me,” Synchron said, promptly exiting the room. He had heard enough.

“ _Good riddance_ ,” Crowbar thought to himself. The last thing he wanted was someone who he knew that had the hots for his mech breathing static down his neck while he worked. He messaged Airstrike that he would begin doing what he had done all those years ago on Cybertron. She gave him the affirmative, and the process started.

 

* * *

 

Arsenal sat in his room, his knees pressed tightly into his chest. He hugged them with his right arm, still not used to the left one being reattached. Snaggletooth had done a decent job putting it back on. He didn’t have a choice in the matter. Had _her gun_ not been fully functional, the “ _medic_ ” would never hear the end of it, and in turn, Arsenal would also never hear the end of it.

He waited below the air vent where his berth was located, listening for the sound of Traffic’s voice in the next room over.

_Snaggletooth’s room_.

Traffic had been extremely irritated, more so than her usual “pleasant” self. It was only a matter of time before she would seek out Snaggletooth for herself. It was in this way and this way only that Arsenal pitied Snaggletooth. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to have her on top of him, using him in _that_ way. Arsenal hated to think it, but he was glad that it was the beastformer and not him that she lusted after. Snaggletooth was a lot bigger than him. Bulkier, heavily armored. Snaggletooth could take a pounding in more ways than one. Still, there were times where Arsenal could hear the faint sobs of a broken mech long after Traffic had left the other room.

 

* * *

 

Snaggletooth poured his second drink of the day. It certainly wouldn’t be the last. He only had a few cygarettes left, and he was saving them until the ship reached the nearest fueling station. There, he could buy more, along with some more engex for himself. Hell, maybe a bottle of high grade. He laughed. He wouldn’t be able to enjoy it for long, though. Traffic always drank most of the high grade brought on board, the bitch.

His thoughts on his personal leisure were interrupted by the sound of his door opening. His spark sank in his chest. He knew who it was. Arsenal at least had the common courtesy to knock first.

“Here for your next appointment, are we?” 

Traffic grinned as she shut the door behind her.

“ _Just let it happen, Toothie. Just let her take what she wants so she can leave_ ,” the crocodile thought to himself. “ _Better me than the little guy_.”

 

* * *

 

Upon hearing the grotesque grunts of Traffic’s vocalizer through the vent, Arsenal sprang off of his berth and left his room, heading straight for the bridge of the ship. He had practiced in his mind what he was going to do over and over. But now that he was actually doing it, he couldn’t help but become extremely nervous about it. His life was on the line. If _she_ found out what he was doing, she’d surely beat him to death. 

He didn’t want to think about that.

He took a deep internal ventilation as he pulled up the list of transmission coordinates on screen. He scrolled through them, finding one in particular. Traffic kept the ship on tight lock down as far as sending and receiving communications went, and with good reason. He wondered if his message would even get across. If anyone would be able to access it. He prayed to God that it would.

 

* * *

 

_Crowbar was in_.

He successfully managed to access the building’s main functions program and keyed in the command that locked him in the room. He worked best alone. Alone and undisturbed. He then hacked into the security network and cut the feed being recorded from the room he was in. 

_Just like old times_.

And just like those old times, he drew up his hands and removed his helm. He set the maroon helmet down onto the top of the console gently, as to not accidentally press a button or turn a dial. He felt the petals of metal that covered his brain module bloom into a crown above his head, allowing access to the organ. He hoped that doing this wouldn’t turn him into an addict again. 

But Airstrike had asked him for his help. And he couldn’t let her down.

He was different now.

Taking a connecting cable from the terminal in one hand and probing the back of his mind with the other, he maneuvered the pronged end of the cord into the receiving port. He secured the link and his optics flashed violently. The feeling of being hooked up to such a device overwhelmed him. It was much more state of the art than what he used to use during his “bad boy” days. 

He braced himself against the console as he initiated the data exchange between him and the machine. He felt the rush of zeros and ones and long lines of code being downloaded into his system. Crowbar felt weak in the knee joints. His whole frame felt weak. He was certainly out of practice.

The motorcycle worked back and forth in his mind, unraveling and manipulating the encrypted file on a psycho-digital level. Minutes faded away like they were nothing. Time ceased to exist while he was in this state. Crowbar reminded himself that he needed to focus, not give into the trance like state that he used to fall headfirst into when he started doing this early in his “career.”

He heard himself sigh in relief as he visualized the file opening before him, spilling it’s information directly into his mental processor. The encrypted file, once fully opened and decoded, displayed three words and three words only.

_**HELP ME COUNTERFEIT** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, crowbar is my favorite and therefore the most important character in this fic. no, i'm not biased in the slightest.
> 
> see you next week!!


	10. Casual Interrogations

Cassette's optics scanned across the room at her customers. Things had slowed down enough for her to send Counterfeit early. He insisted that he could stay until closing, but she told him to take it easy for the rest of the day.

With Arsenal leaving so suddenly, he’d been picking up the slack. In fact, to her it looked like he was trying to distract himself by doing so much around the joint. She wasn’t a hundred percent positive, but she had a very strong hunch as to why.

While “the one armed wonder boy” was there, Sunshine’s smiles shone just a little bit brighter. But with the little grey mech gone, those smiles had dimmed. Not enough to for the customers to notice, but the ex-racer could definitely tell.

When they were together, serving customers or cleaning after hours, Counterfeit’s whole demeanor was different. Sure, he was still the same old ray of sunshine that the Circuit Saloon knew and loved, but he was so much more animated. He was sunnier. He laughed more and whistled while he worked. Cassette had even caught him stealing glances at Arsenal on occasion.

Now, Cassette was definitely a betting mech, and she’d place a high amount that the monoformer was very fond of Arsenal. She laughed to herself thinking about it, knowing that they had shared a room while he was there.

 

* * *

  
Crowbar burst through the doors of the Saloon with a serious and determined expression. All optics turned towards him, most furrowing into irritated looks. Folks knew who Crowbar was, that fake Autobot cop wannabe. Hell, he had tried to arrest most of the patrons who were trying to enjoy their drinks before he had stormed in.

“I’m here for Counterfeit the Monofomer…!” he announced.

Ah, that was not the right thing to say. Within the flash of a sparkbeat, many rugged individuals had pulled out their blasters and pistols, filling the room with the sound of weapons being locked and loaded. Cassette herself had found her own hand reaching under the counter for her sonic shotgun.

Crowbar gulped as several barrels were pointed at him. He recognized a few faces, and he knew that his had to have been recognized as well. He suddenly wanted to leave, really, really quickly.

Airstrike walked in behind him and sighed deeply as she took out her Satellite Security Department badge and flashed it for all to see. “Weapons down, everyone. He’s with me.”

The room was then filled with audible grumbles as several people put their guns back into their subspaces, leaving several itchy trigger fingers with no relief against the motorcycle.

Crowbar stayed close to her side as they walked to the back of the establishment where Cassette was cleaning some glasses and keeping an eye on Crowbar.

“Should I be the good cop or the bad cop?” Crowbar whispered to his superior officer.

“I think you should stay quiet and let me do all the talking,” the seeker whispered back.

A good idea.

 

* * *

 

Arsenal had erased the sent message so neither Traffic nor Snaggletooth would know it had been sent. Still, he couldn’t shake the unending waves of “what ifs” while one of them was near the command terminal of the ship.

Traffic reclined in her makeshift captain's chair which was stationed behind the pilot’s station where Snaggletooth sat.

“The next fueling station should be coming up on screen in about an hour,” the crocodile said with his down under accent.

Traffic responded with, “Bring Arsenal out here.”

The beastformer bit his tongue before he could utter some snide remark that would no doubt result in some kind of act of violence from the larger mech. He leaned over the console, held down a button, and spoke into a microphone.

“Arsenal, come to the bridge, please. Thank you.”

 

* * *

  
Airstrike and Crowbar sat at the bar. The security chief ordered herself a bottle of mid-grade and Crowbar ordered a fizzy comet.

“Sorry about my...secretary,” the flier apologized. She thanked Primus that she hadn’t accidentally said ‘partner.’ Crowbar would never let her forget that. It was bad enough she was indulging him with “leading the investigation.” Then again, it was good to see him out of the office and not getting into any squabbles with some of the other officers or employees.

“It’s alright,” the ex-racer replied, “but he’s got some nerve to ask for Sunshine with his reputation with some of my customers.”

“I can imagine,” Airstrike said, glancing down at the two-wheeler beside her. He was fiddling with the straw in the square glass of his cocktail, looking rather glum.

He wanted so badly to feel more involved in this and not be sitting on the sidelines. He supposed that he should consider himself lucky to be sitting on the sidelines and not back at his desk in the security department’s office.

“There’s something that’s been brought to my attention, and we need to speak to Counterfeit. Ask him a few questions,” she continued.

Crowbar perked up a bit.

_‘We?’_

The powder blue mech folded her arms and gave Airstrike a cross look.

“Is this about his _‘problem?’_ Because I’m pretty sure he’s got that Lost and Found agreement you set up just for him.”

“No, this isn’t about _that._ The details are classified and I’m afraid I can’t say much.”

“I see,” Cassette replied, still feeling uncertain about this situation. “Well, I’m afraid he’s not here. I gave him the rest of the day off. Poor dear’s been working his aft off since his little friend quit.”

“The nurse?” Airstrike questioned. Surge was the only “little friend” Counterfeit had ever mentioned to her.

“Who, Surge? Oh, no,” she laughed. Working for Cassette would be the last thing the power cell would do. He didn’t like her very much, and she knew it. It pained her, though. Every time Shortfuse came in she’d always ask how he was doing. She wanted to get to know Surge, seeing as how he was an important person to Shortfuse, who she loved dearly. But she knew Surge had his own issues he had to work out for himself. Maybe one day things would change.

“He was a smaller, grey mech. A little on the quiet side, that one,” she continued.

Crowbar grabbed the napkin under his drink and whipped out a pen from his subspace and began to draw something.

“Was he and Counterfeit close?” the seeker asked.

“Oh, yeah. They were two nutrition spheres in a pod. Practically inseparable. His name is Arsenal, but not _once_ did I ever hear Sunshine call him that. It was always ‘Arnie’ this or ‘Arnie’ that.”

“Did he look like this?” Crowbar chimed in, sliding his napkin drawing towards the bartender. She took a glance at the nearly perfect drawing of Arsenal’s face and helm.

“Yep, that’s him. That’s Sunshine’s Arnie,” she confirmed. “Did you know him?”

“Oh, uh..no. I just..I saw him walking around with Counterfeit every so often.”

Airstrike hoped that by “saw” he didn’t mean “stalked.”

Crowbar hoped that she wouldn’t ask him about the particulars of his statement later.

“Anyway, if you’re looking for him, the only place I can think of that he would be at is the Minor Surgery Center a little ways down from here. If he’s not, then I don’t know what to tell you, officer.”

Airstrike rose from her seat and Crowbar, taking one last sip of his drink, did the same. The large mech put her payment for the beverages on the counter and thanked Cassette for her time. She turned to leave, and Crowbar followed her out.

 

* * *

  
Arsenal groaned. He was very comfortable lying on his berth, alone in his room and not being around anyone. What could he possibly be needed for this time? He exited his quarters swiftly, not wanting to keep a certain someone waiting.

He hated her so much.

The weapon approached the side of the captains chair and stood there, waiting for Traffic to notice him. She sensed his presence and turned to look at him, sticking her arm out towards his direction.

“Transform for me,” she ordered.

And he did, reluctantly, into her grasp. The large vehicle held him and inspected his alt mode. _God,_ he hated her touch. It was cold and unloving.

“Your transformation is a little slow,” she noted aloud. “Let’s hope this doesn’t become a habit when I actually need you.”

The last thing Arsenal wanted was to be needed by her again. He hated being used to take lives.

Traffic laid him across her lap, her hand staying wrapped around his grip firmly. It was a silent way for her to reiterate her possessive nature over him. He hated that, too.

“We’ll be arriving at another Fuel Station in an hour,” she said, running her thumb over Arsenal’s metal texture. “If you’re a good mech and won’t run away again I’ll give you a few credits to get yourself something nice.”

Arsenal didn’t care what she had to offer him. She would use any means to control him.

 

* * *

 

“The clinic isn’t too far from here,” Crowbar said to Airstrike. He turned to look at her, waiting for her next instruction. She looked down at his eager expression. He had handled himself decently in the saloon, she thought, and decided to give him a little bit of leash.

“You go on ahead. I need to check back in at the station and make sure thing’s haven’t turned into complete chaos with my absence.”

“R-Really?”

“Find Counterfeit, see if he knows of anyone that would try to contact him from outside of the space station. After that, get in touch with Synchron and see if he’s gotten any luck with finding out where that file came from. Report back to me as soon as you’re done. Think you can handle that?”

Without even thinking, his frame moved on it’s own, straightening up into a dignified posture. He saluted her.

“Yes, ma’am!!”

She chuckled at his enthusiasm.

“Don’t make me regret this,” Airstrike said, transforming into her Cybertronian alt mode and taking off.

“I won’t!!” Crowbar shouted into the atmosphere. “I won’t let you down!!”

This was it! The moment Crowbar had been waiting all his life! A chance! An opportunity to prove himself!

He transformed into his vehicle mode, and sped down the winding road to the clinic.

 

* * *

 

Counterfeit and Surge had moved out of the minibot’s room and into the waiting area where the holovid monitor was located. The clinic was closed for the day as it was Supply Day. Once a week, Shortfuse would head up to Upper Satellite and pick up things that were needed to keep the minor surgery center running optimally. It was on days like this that Surge would take the opportunity to watch some soap operas, mostly old reruns from Cybertron, or an action movie or comedy of some kind. Counterfeit preferred the later options.

They had their bubbling energon drinks and a bowl of puffed energy snacks between them. Counterfeit held the remote and flipped through the channels trying to find something for him and Surge to watch.

Suddenly, there came a knock at the door. The pair of mechs looked at each other quizzically. It wasn’t Shortfuse, as he had a key card to the place. And it couldn’t have been a patient, as no appointments were held on supply days.

Surge got up and made his way to the door. He opened it manually from his side and found himself looking at Crowbar, the fake Autobot cop. Crowbar opened his mouth to say something, but Surge had already shut the door on him.

“Who is it, Surge?” Counterfeit asked, still flipping through the holovid programs.

“No one,” the dark grey mech replied, turning to go back to his spot on the couch.

But before he could, Crowbar had begun knocking on the door again, with a little more passion.

“Doesn’t sound like no one,” Counterfeit said back.

Surge sighed as he turned back around and opened the door again.

“What do you want?” Surge said with an annoyed tone. Every time Crowbar showed up at their doorstep it was always for some mundane reason or another.

“Is Counterfeit here? I need to talk to him,” Crowbar said quickly. Again, he found the door closed in his face.

On the other side of the door, Surge looked at Counterfeit, who was looking back at him.

“What is it?” the monoformer asked.

“It’s Crowbar. He says he needs to talk to you.”

Counterfeit gave the mini a confused look. He hadn’t taken anything recently, and he had purposefully been avoiding the motorcycle at all costs. That handmade Autobot faction badge was just too tempting.

The wine colored mech set the remote on the table, stood up, and answered the door. Surge stood behind him.

Crowbar looked up at Counterfeit, and Counterfeit looked down at him. Their last encounter hadn’t been exactly pleasant.

“Counterfeit,” he began, “I’m glad you’re here. I need to talk to you about something.”

Counterfeit said nothing for a moment, thinking about what the other could need to talk to him about.

“It might have something to do with Arsenal.”

Ah, that was the right thing to say.

 

* * *

 

“He just left without saying goodbye,” Counterfeit began, frowning and fiddling with his fingers. It hurt to say that out loud. Why would Arsenal just leave like that? Didn’t he like him? Was there something he had done? Something he had said to offend him?

Crowbar sat in one of the single chairs in the waiting area of the clinic, listening to Counterfeit recount the day Arsenal had quit working at the Circuit Saloon.

“When I asked Cassette about it she said he was trying to seat a customer but they left after he saw him, and he left shortly after. I was in the stockroom when this all happened.”

“I see,” Crowbar said, taking in all the information being told to him. “Did Arsenal ever mention anyone to you? Anyone that he knew?”

“No, never,” Counterfeit answered back. “Arnie made it very clear that he didn’t want to talk about anything about where he came from before he got on the Satellite. I guess that also means people he might have known.”

Before Crowbar could come up with a good follow up question, Counterfeit spoke again.

“It’s gotta be him, there’s no doubt in my mind that it is.” His tone changed from sad sounding to something entirely different. “Arnie’s in trouble.”

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” said the mech who jumped to conclusions about people like it was put into his primary personality processor.

“He’s one of the only people that I know that would ask me for help. I told him if he ever needed me all he had to do was ask.”

“Ok. I’ve got a few calls to make and I’ll keep you posted,” Crowbar said, standing from his seat. “Thank you for, uh, your time.”

The motorcycle went towards the door of the clinic to leave, but something stopped him just before his hand reached to motion sensor. A feeling gnawed at his spark. Something that had been there since he had been put on administrative leave. He had a lot of time to think about himself and his actions, and his choice of words. Deep down, he felt like a hypocrite, calling people ‘criminal’ for misdemeanors or misunderstandings. He himself had been called that many times in his past.

Crowbar felt that he needed to make things right. Even if it meant starting with one person.

He turned back to look at Counterfeit with a softened expression. Optic contact was suddenly more difficult than it had been while he was talking to the monoformer. Was it the guilt? Was it remorse? He wasn’t entirely sure.

“Counterfeit,” he started, clearing his vocalizer. Counterfeit looked at him, waiting to hear what the shorter mech had to say. “I..I’m sorry for being so harsh with you about your condition. I’m going to try and be different about it from now on.” Was that…? Was that good enough?

After a moment, Counterfeit smiled a little at the wannabe cop.

“It’s ok. I forgive you.”

Apparently it was.


	11. Cybertronians

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, it's been almost 2 months...

Surge had sat with them, remaining quiet while Crowbar asked his questions. He certainly wasn’t expecting that last part, though. The minibot had witnessed Crowbar coming into the clinic to chastise or attempt to perform a citizen's arrest on Counterfeit more times than he could count. He was led to believe that the two-wheeler was stuck in his ways with how he thought of or treated people. 

Maybe Crowbar wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

 

* * *

 

Synchron had been working nonstop since Airstrike and Crowbar had left, trying to pinpoint the location of where the message had been sent from. He could only get so far as to conclude that the source was either a high security facility or a moving vessel with some kind of signal tracking deterrent integrated into their communications system. Whoever had sent the message must not have had the right authorization codes to send it in the first place, thus creating such a heavily encrypted file to the Communications and Technology satellite receiver. 

Synchron sighed. He was doing all that he could, yet there was no change in the situation. No new developments, nothing to report.

And now Crowbar was comm’ing him. Great. Just what he needed.

He accepted the incoming call with disdain.

“Have you identified the source yet?”

At least Crowbar was to the point. _That_ he could appreciate..

“No. There’s an interference that’s proving...difficult to break through.”

“Hm. Keep me posted. Crowbar out.”

Crowbar ended the call just as quick as he had initiated it, which the empurata didn’t mind. But part of him wished it had lasted just a little bit longer, long enough for him to maybe ask the hacker for some help. Of course, that would involve being above his pride in order to do so, which would’ve been a feat in and of itself.  
Synchron didn’t want to admit that Crowbar was better than him. He was jealous of Crowbar. He had the mech of his dreams and he could do what he could not in terms of software manipulation.

Synchron sighed again and continued to work.

 

* * *

 

Crowbar sat at his desk in the security office typing up his report thus far. He included transcripts of the statements made by both Cassette and Counterfeit and attached audio files of the conversations. He made sure everything in this report was _perfect_. It had to be. This was one time Airstrike was allowing him to be on _active duty_. Crowbar needed to play his cards right. _Be cool_. Things were starting to change for him, and he couldn’t afford any blunders.

Maybe if he did well enough... _he could get a promotion_.

It was a nice thought, one that made him smile as he continued to type up his report. It would be one step further towards him becoming an actual Autobot, or at least that’s what he was telling himself. 

Finishing the report was proving difficult now as he began to daydream about this.

 

* * *

 

Counterfeit and Surge resumed watching holovid broadcasts after Crowbar had left. But Counterfeit wasn’t paying much attention to what was playing. He was too busy thinking about what Crowbar had said to him.

He was too busy thinking about _Arsenal_.

He felt restless. He couldn’t just sit there doing nothing while Arsenal was out there in the dark recesses of space, Primus only knowing what kind of danger he was in. He needed to do something. Anything.

“...Uh, I’m gonna go for a walk,” he said.

“Oh.” Surge replied, sounding a little disappointed. “Ok.” 

Counterfeit left, and Surge was all by himself. He fell on his side and laid on the couch. He didn’t want Counterfeit to leave. He was the only person, besides Shortfuse, that he felt comfortable enough to be social with. He had tried being talkative and friendly while Arsenal was there, but Surge was socially awkward and an introvert by nature. He preferred close knit relationships with a small group of people than being in a large crowd with acquaintances or strangers, which was uncommon for most power cells.

Power cells were known in Cybertronian society as being socialite outcasts. They were the first ones labeled as disposable class by The Primal Senate, _the Quintessons_. Propaganda began to spread, suggesting that Power Cells should offer their lives for the greater good of the planet and its available resources. Soon after, the Power Cell Rebellion began, and that was the beginning to the end of Cybertron. 

Power Cells, other “disposables,” and those who openly opposed the Senate, took their stand against them, eventually finding themselves face to face with Senatorial Guards and other armed officers. Many were killed, imprisoned, and empurata’d. 

To avoid another such event from happening, the Senate decided to allow those that had been classified as “disposable” to be given the freedom to choose their occupation. This was considered a victory, and celebrations began all across Cybertron. But people began to question the Senate and their other functionalist based policies. 

This would eventually pave the way for a group that would rise up and call themselves _the Decepticons_.

For the Power Cells, however, the celebration never ended. They created their own culture at the expense of the Quintessonal Senate. They’d get together in groups and parade around until they found some bar or club, and they’d sing and dance or drink merrily, usually ignoring anyone who found them to be obnoxious or annoying. 

The Power Cells didn’t care what society thought of them. For Primus’ sake, society had basically told them to accept their own genocide as a means to allow more resource usage for the rest of the population. As long as they had each other, they were happy.

Except for Surge, who was terribly lonely and sad.

 

* * *

  
Counterfeit walked through the Lower Satellite district until he found the public elevator. As much as he loved to go on his long walks to think to himself, he didn’t want to do that today. Not after talking with Crowbar. Something was wrong. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it deep in his spark, and it made his fuel tank queasy. He got into the elevator and pressed the button that would take him straight to the top.

_He needed to talk to an old friend of his_.

 

* * *

 

As the next hour had passed, Traffic’s ship had located and docked into the fueling station. After several stops throughout space, they all start to look the same. This one, however, was much larger than the usual ones. That made Traffic happy, as it meant more opportunity for business.

Cybertronians weren’t the only ones who wanted energon. Several other races of biomechanical beings used it and even some organics had purpose for the stuff. And judging by the various races that were on the docks of this fueling station, things looked promising.

Snaggletooth did most of the heavy lifting, carrying out the large crates of energon out of the ship and onto the dock. Not soon after their goods were on display, a strange looking organic lifeform wearing a badge of some kind approached them, speaking Common Intergalactic.

“[HELLO. DO YOU HAVE A SELLER’S PERMIT?]” they asked. Traffic reached into her subspace and took out a small card that was slightly larger than a business card.

“[YES,]” she replied. “[HERE. LOOK.]”

The organic creature took her permit into their tentacle grip and examined it with several eyes that were attached to eye stalks. They gave it back to her.

“[VERY GOOD.]”

Traffic put the card back into her subspace.

“[I AM ONE OF THE INSPECTION OFFICERS HERE AT THIS FUELING STATION. I AM REQUIRED TO EXAMINE THE GOODS YOU ARE GOING TO BE SELLING AND MAKING SURE IT IS ON THE APPROVED LIST OF INTERGALACTIC COMMERCIAL GOODS.]”

“[GO AHEAD,]” Traffic encouraged.

The organic lifeform opened the crates one by one, the pinkish purple hue of the energon cubes reflecting brightly in their eyes. They made an affirmative, gurgling sound.

“[AH, YES. ENERGON. MANY PEOPLE WILL BE HAPPY ABOUT THIS.]”

That sounded good to Traffic.

“[BUT BEFORE I CAN ALLOW YOU TO SELL YOUR CUBES I AM ALSO REQUIRED TO SEE YOUR INTERGALACTIC IDENTIFICATION CARDS. ALL THREE OF YOU.]”

And the trio took out their intergalactic id cards and showed them to the inspection officer. As they looked, their expression became more serious in nature.

“[YOU ARE ALL CYBERTRONIAN...]”

“[YES,]” Traffic replied. “[IS THAT A PROBLEM?]”

“[YOUR PEOPLE ARE AT WAR. CYBERTRONIANS CAUSE CHAOS WHEREVER THEY GO. YOUR PEOPLE HAVE A BAD REPUTATION AMONG A LOT OF ORGANIC RACES. DO YOU KNOW THIS?]”

“[WHAT CYBERTRON DID IN THE PAST WITH ORGANICS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH US. WE’RE NEUTRAL. PEACEFUL,]” Snaggletooth said.

“[WE ONLY WANT OUR MONEY AND REST,]” Traffic added, smiling sweetly at the organic.

Despite knowing that the biomechanicals were unaffiliated with the war from Cybertron, their internalized skepticism never wavered.

“[VERY WELL. ENJOY YOUR STAY AT THIS FUELING STATION. BUT IF YOU CAUSE ANY PROBLEMS YOU WILL BE DETAINED BY ARMED GUARDS AND YOUR MERCHANDISE, INCLUDING YOUR SHIP, CONFISCATED UNTIL THE INTERGALACTIC COUNCIL IS CONTACTED AND DECIDE WHAT TO DO WITH YOU.]”

Traffic smiled again and the orange being.  
“[DON’T WORRY. WE WON’T CAUSE ANY TROUBLE.]”

The inspection officer nodded and left them to do their business. As soon as they were out of earshot, her usual irritated look returned. She spat on the ground in spite of them.

“He makes my trigger finger itchy,” she said.

Hearing that made Arsenal feel anxious.

 

* * *

 

After a few hours, all of the energon was sold and the trio of Cybertronians went back inside of the ship to count the currency they had made. Traffic loved money, and she loved making a slag ton of it while selling energon. This was a good day, and there would be plenty for the three to split after deductions were made for the ship’s fuel and supply replenishment, etc.

But Traffic was also the self appointed captain of the vessel, and always took “the captain’s share,” leaving the other two mechs with not that much. But who were they to argue with Traffic? They knew better than to do that.

Traffic stayed on board the ship as the other two left to enjoy themselves before they would depart.

“Here,” Snaggletooth said, handing Arsenal a few credit slips of his own. Arsenal looked up at him with a puzzled look.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

“What do ya think it’s for? Go enjoy yourself.”

It wasn’t often that Snaggletooth showed kindness to Arsenal.

He blamed Traffic for that.

“Oh. Ok, thanks..” he said back.

“There’s a bar right over there,” the beastformer said, pointing to an illuminated sign in Intergalactic Common that read ’[DRINK HERE]’ above a facade. “The drinks at fueling stations aren’t that expensive so I don’t need a lot of money. That’s where I’ll be.”

Arsenal nodded and the two split up, with Snaggletooth headed towards the bar and Arsenal began looking for _someplace else_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [VIBRATES WHILE THINKING ABOUT CHAPTER 12]


	12. Mr. Wheeler's Spaceship

Medical supplies were sometimes hard to come by, especially with there being a war and all. The Satellite Space Station was lucky to get what it was able to. Most of the resources and products available for Cybertronians were dominated by either the Autobots or the Decepticons. The neutrals were doing their best despite this.

But Shortfuse was furious. This was the third week in a row that he would be going back to the Minor Surgery Center with only a roll of metal mesh gauze wrapping and some weak analgesic solution. It wasn’t enough, and he knew that those at the Hospital Unit had to know that as well. The nuclear warhead stormed off from the supplier’s station and made his way to see Torque.

 

* * *

 

Adjusting the reading spectacles on the bridge of her nose, Airstrike read over the report that Crowbar had sent to her. He had worked with formal police reports many, many times before, so she wasn’t surprised to see that everything was perfect. Perfect formatting, perfect grammar and syntax...even the perfect sign off.

_Crowbar had addressed himself as secretary._

She knew it wasn’t his preferred position, but she was always appreciative of his professionalism when handling the paperwork, so to speak. Now, if only his behavior while off the clock was just as reflective of such professionalism...

She was very much aware of his personal aspirations. There wasn’t a spark on the space station who hadn’t at least _heard_ of the wannabe Autobot. She had also heard other things about Crowbar. Things she wouldn’t ask about in person. Airstrike didn’t want to embarrass him, as Crowbar was good at doing that all on his own.

Apparently, some of the other officers at the security department knew that Crowbar was an academy drop out and would pick on him about it when the motorcycle became a little too _assertive_. Airstrike had her fair share of breaking up his squabbles and sitting him down for a disciplinary chat. 

Several people wondered why Airstrike still kept him around. The bottom line was, Crowbar was good at his job. He was an excellent secretary. He just had a few... _quirks_ that she was slowly trying to help him work on.

And letting him work on this case was proving to be a good start.

 

* * *

 

Arsenal walked around the fueling station, looking for a very specific place. Most fueling stations had them, and they were pretty hard to miss. It wasn’t until he went towards the back half of the station that he found it. 

 _Platinum Star Pleasures_.

Traffic had her money, Snaggletooth had his engex and cygarettes, and Arsenal had his one night stands.

It was the only thing that was good enough to distract him from his life aboard Traffic’s ship. It was the only thing he spent his money on. There wasn’t anything else that he wanted to buy, really. Everything he had or ever knew was on that ship. That cursed ship filled with painful memories and traumatic realities. He hated it so very much, but when he was with his hired hooker for the evening, none of that mattered. None of it was real. The only thing that he knew in that moment was him and the person he would be getting himself off with. It was his only form of escape.

The gunformer walked into the building, not making any optic contact with anyone coming or going. Some people were too tall or too short for him to do that with anyway. He approached the counter, looking as emotionally dead as ever.

The organic lifeform behind the counter looked up with him with a tired expression. He was a short, beefy, green-skinned Orcish creature with a few cybernetic prosthetics. His hair was dark and oily, and was pulled back into a slick ponytail. Short, rounded tusks jutted from out of his mouth. 

“[WELCOME TO PLATINUM STAR PLEASURES. ARE YOU A FIRST TIME GUEST WITH US?]”

Arsenal wanted to laugh. It had been a very long time since his first time _anything_.

“[NO, I’M NOT],” the mech replied. He took out his intergalactic i.d. And set it on the counter along with his Platinum Star Pleasures Platinum Membership Card.

The Orc’s eyes lit up. _This mechanoid was a high paying customer!_ Immediately, his tired demeanor changed to something a little bit more charismatic. He looked at both the membership card and Arsenal’s i.d. Before handing them back to him.

“[IT SAYS THAT YOU’RE CYBERTRONIAN].”

“[...I AM.]”

Arsenal was waiting for this organic to hold some kind of contempt for him like the other one that had met him earlier when he had first arrived at the fueling station. He had heard the same stories over and over again about his people from oganics and biomechanicals alike. They all ended the same, with some kind of remark about how Cybertronians are just a thorn in the side of intergalactic life. 

By this point Arsenal had detached himself from Cybertron. The only “real” home he knew was on Traffic’s ship, and even _that_ wasn’t something worth considering as a home. It was a nightmare. Living day in and day out, wondering if the hulking monster of a mech known as Traffic would abuse him for any trite reason.

They say that home is where the spark is, and Arsenal’s spark longed to be back at the Circuit Saloon, back with—

“You speak neocybex, kid?” the orcish man asked. Arsenal was taken aback. He had never heard a non-cybertronian speaking his own language before. The accent was definitely foreign, but very understandable. He was a little impressed.

“Oh, uh. Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

The orc laughed heartily from his gut.

“Wonderful! I gotta say, I ain’t seen a Cybertronian walk int’a my Platinum Parl’a in some time! How’s my accent, kid? Is it good? Been a while since I’ve talked with a Transform’a.”

“Um, it’s..ok? Laid back, I guess.”

The orc snorted and nodded.

“Sounds good t’a me. So what’s your type? Who’a you lookin’ to spend some time with?”

_Finally, back to business…_

“Do you have a catalog?” Arsenal asked. “I’d like to see it.”

“A’course I got a catalog! Bett’a yet, I got the Platinum Edition. Just for wise guys like you with the extra creds t’a spare,” he grinned.

Pressing a button under the counter, the top of it lit up like a computer screen, and a digital catalog of available pleasure models for platinum members was put on display.

“Since you’re a Transform’a, I’ve got one guy that might suit your fancy..”

A metal prosthetic forearm reached over the countertop and swiped the digital catalog, changing the model that was being projected. Several different workers flashed through his optics, all ranging between organics of various shapes and sizes to different races of biomechanicals.

The clerk stopped at one picture of a neon green mechanical being. The mech’s frame was decorated in bright green biolights.

“This is Night Light. He’s one’a those Cybertronians that don’t transform,” the organic began scratching his head. “What’re those called again..?”

Arsenal blushed.

“...Monoformers.”

“Yeah, that’s right! Monoform’as. Those guys are a real novelty. _Rare_ , even. What’dya say? Are ya into monoform’as?”

Arsenal’s blush deepened.

“I-I’ll take one of your non-sentient droids,” he stammered, changing the subject immediately.

The orc sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

“If that’s what you really want...”

It wasn’t what Arsenal _really wanted_ , but what he really wanted he couldn’t get where he was at, and part of him, deep inside of his spark, doubted he ever would.

 

* * *

 

Shortfuse barged into the Upper Satellite's Hospital Unit hotter than a tin of lava cookies. He went up to the reception desk, which was perfectly sized for minibots. It had to be, as the receptionist was a minibot.

“Hi, Doctor Shortfuse! How are you today?” the power cell asked.

“I’m angry, Trinket. Very angry,” the warhead responded.

“O-Oh, I’m sorry...” she frowned. Trinket didn’t like it when people got angry. She always did her best to make sure everyone was happy. But sometimes that’s hard to do, especially when working with the public. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she added.

“Yeah, is Torque around? I need to talk to him. Right now.”

Shortfuse’s expression remained furrowed and angry, but he could tell it was making the soft green mech a little nervous.

“Doctor Torque is consulting with a patient right now...but I’ll let him know you’re here,” she said.

Shortfuse gave a nod and grumbled away to the patient waiting area. His arms were crossed over his rounded chest and he tapped his foot. Patience wasn’t his thing. Made him antsy. Serving in the Cybertronian Army can do that to a mech.

Several minutes had passed, and Shortfused was just about to drift off into sleep mode. It was relatively quiet in the hospital, mostly because of understaffing and lack of patients. The only people who came to the hospital were those who had serious or immediate ailments or injuries, and those were rare and few.

A door had opened in the back, and two mechs came out laughing, one of them being Doctor Torque.

“Now, make sure when y’all get there you grab me a souvenir,” the large tractor laughed. The other mech laughed and made their comment, while being herded over to the receptionist’s desk. “Trinket, darlin’, can I get a witness signature for this here travel slip?”

“Of course, doctor,” Trinket said softly. Torque smiled down at her as she signed the document, verifying that the other mech was medically approved for space travel. The tractor took the completed form and gave it to the traveler, who thanked the medic and left to go on their way. Torque waved them off and wished them safe travels.

“Doctor Torque,” Trinket began, “Doctor Shortfuse is here to see you.” The power cell gestured to the waiting area and the two medics made optic contact. Torque smiled brightly at the other minibot as he strode over. Shortfuse stood up from his chair to greet him.

“Howdy, Doc! What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“My lack of medical supplies, that’s what.”

Torque’s happy-go-lucky look lessened a little at Shortfuse’s tone.

“What do ya need? I can spare a few things,” the large mech offered

Like his receptionist, Torque also liked it best when people were happy and satisfied. He didn’t mind making compromises or mediating. Torque had a good spark and it burned brightly for others.

“What I need is equal distribution of supplies!” Shortfuse exclaimed, poking an angry digit into Torque’s shin plate.

Torque felt terrible. He couldn’t help how the supplies that were shipped to the space station were sorted and divided among the different departments.

“I’m sorry, Doc. There’s nothin’ I can do ‘bout that,” the tractor frowned. Shortfuse rolled his optics and scoffed.

“For Primus’ sake, you’re the Head of Medicine!! You’re going to stand here and tell me that there’s nothing you can do?!?”

Torque sighed.

“Look, all I can offer is what I have available in the hospital’s storage room. I don’t make the executive decisions on who gets what when the supply ships come in. We should all be grateful for what we have, considerin’ the current war.”

It was here that Shortfuse bit his glossa. He knew all too well about wars and the scarcity of medical supplies that came with them. The minibot was a veteran, afterall.

Shortfuse took a deep ventilation and exhaled.

“Alright, you’ve made your point. Let me see what you—”

In the middle of his sentence, Shortfuse just so happened to look out the window. And who did see walking at a suspiciously quick pace?

_Counterfeit._

“On second thought,” Shortfuse corrected, “I’ll stop by later. Something’s come up and I need to find out what it is, exactly.”

Torque gave a confused look, but he didn’t question Shortfuse’s statement.

“Oh, alright then. Come back anytime. I’ll be here.”

And with that, Shortfuse left the hospital unit and began following the monoformer from a distance.

 

* * *

 

Counterfeit walked the landing platform of the Upper Satellite until he found _Wheeler’s Warehouse_. 

It had been a while since he had been there.

Counterfeit walked into the small building. The shelves were lined with antiques and baubles, old devices that may or may not work, odds and ends, those sort of things. Counterfeit smiled fondly as he recalled his old manager telling him many millions of years ago that he had always dreamed of opening a shop of some kind. The wine colored mech was glad that things had worked out for Mr. Wheeler here on the space station.

Speaking of Mr. Wheeler, where was he?

“Mr. _Wheeler?_ ” Counterfeit shouted. “ _Are you in here?_ ”

Rolling out of the supply closet came Mr. Wheeler himself. An old segway, half transformed from the waist down. He was a mustached mech, and looked very elegant for someone of his age.

Counterfeit smiled nervously as he waved at his old employer.

“Hey, Mr. Wheeler.”

Mr. Wheeler wasn’t one to express a lot of emotions. He had what some would call “resting glitch face.” A very solemn fellow, this Mr. Wheeler.

“Hello, Counterfeit,” he said. “It’s been a long time since you last stopped by.”

Counterfeit chuckled nervously and held his hands behind his back in tight fists. There were so many _things_ in here! He needed to make things quick before he found something that caught his interest.

“Gosh, Mr. Wheeler, it sure has been. Listen, I kinda need a favor...”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“Well, you see, uh..” Counterfeit cleared his vocalizer. Why was it so hard to talk to Mr. Wheeler? Ah, that’s right. It was because he was so stiff, so _formal_. “I need to borrow your ship, just for a few days.”

Mr. Wheeler raised an optical ridge.

“You want to borrow...my ship…”

“O-Only for a few days, a week tops! I promise to bring it back in perfect condition!”

Mr. Wheeler began to stroke his chin and pull at his metal goatee.

“Well, Counterfeit, I must say. I’m a little perplexed as to why, after all this time, you now decide to come into my warehouse asking to borrow the Cosmic Sunrise, my most prized possession.”

“I know, I know. This is really sudden for me, too. But it’s important.”

Mr. Wheeler gave the younger mech a concerned look.

“You’re not running from the law, are you?”

“What?! No, no!”

“That’s a relief,” the segway said flatly. “I’m a bit too old now to entertain your shenanigans like I used to.”

Counterfeit didn’t comment. The past was the past.

“Going on a trip then?” Mr. Wheeler asked, attempting to lighten the mood.

“..More like a rescue mission.”

“A _rescue mission?_ ”

Counterfeit nodded.

“Forgive my curiosity, but who exactly needs rescuing?”

And then Counterfeit began to tell Mr. Wheeler all that had happened. Him finding Arsenal, taking him to get patched up by Surge, Shortfuse getting him a job at the Circuit Saloon, being _roommates_ and spending time together, Arsenal suddenly leaving out of nowhere, and the mysterious message asking Counterfeit for help.

“I see,” Mr. Wheeler finally said, digesting everything that Counterfeit had just vented to him. “Well, then. Since you’re so keen on finding this _friend_ of yours, what’s your plan of action, hm?”

Counterfeit paused for a moment.

“..What do you mean?”

Mr. Wheeler sighed. He knew Counterfeit far too well.

“Always quick to act and not quick to think,” Mr. Wheeler tsked. Counterfeit folded his arms across his chest at the remark. The monoformer was beginning to get annoyed, which wasn’t uncommon when being around the older mech. “Don’t give me that look,” the segway continued. “Have I ever been wrong?”

“..No,” Counterfeit pouted.

“Right, then. I’ll ask you again. What is it that you’re going to do?”

Counterfeit was initially confused by the question. It sounded rhetorical. He thought it was very obvious what he had planned to do.

“I’m going to go get him. I’m going to go get Arnie and bring him back _here_.”

Mr. Wheeler sighed again.

“I understand _that_. Tell me _how_.” 

“I was...going to travel out into space and look for him...”

The half transformed mech rolled away into one of the back rooms, leaving Counterfeit unattended in the lobby of the warehouse. While there were definite sounds of equipment being moved around in the background, Counterfeit’s optics began to scan the lobby. He told himself that it was ok to look around. There was no problem with just looking at stuff…

...Especially Mr. Wheeler’s datapad stylus that was sitting all alone on the checkout counter.

How many times has he tried to take that one object from his old manager? More times than he could count. Mr. Wheeler knew, though. The old mech was good with numbers and kept up with such things.

The monoformer walked forward quietly, maneuvering past the shelves and tables of unique items, until he reached the back counter. From the sound of things, Mr. Wheeler was still looking for whatever it was that was being ever so elusive in the back room. 

Now was the perfect opportunity _to swipe it_.

As he reached for it, his anxieties began to bombard him with the same thoughts that usually accompanied his kleptomania. It wasn’t until after he had successfully taken Mr. Wheeler’s stylus and stuffed it quickly into his subspace that a new wave of anxiety washed over his mental circuitry.

It was a continuous cycle for him. Feeling anxious about taking something. feeling anxious because he just took something, feeling anxious about someone catching him in the act or figuring out later that it was him who had taken something, feeling disgustingly guilty about what he had done when he went back to his room at the Circuit Saloon, hating and beating himself up over his mental condition, feeling anxious about going to see Airstrike about returning something “he had found” into the lost and found that she had set up for him, finally feeling the growing dread and anxiety when it was all over disappearing, only to wait for the cycle to begin anew.

Counterfeit now wanted to leave and try to forget that once again he had taken something that wasn’t his. But Mr. Wheeler still hadn’t come out of the backroom that he was in, looking for whatever it was that was in there.

 _“Is that a ‘no’ then?”_ Counterfeit hollered, hoping that the other mech had heard him so he could leave. But said mech wasn’t done with what he was doing, nor was he done with Counterfeit’s being there.

 _“Stay right where you are,”_ was shouted back to him. _“Don’t move.”_

And Counterfeit didn’t.

_“And put back my stylus back where you found it.”_

And Counterfeit did.

 

* * *

 

“Good work, Crowbar. Excellent job.”

Crowbar’s spark began to swell in his chest. She had given him casual praises before, the usual ones that most employers gave to their employees. 

_But this was different._

Much, much different. This was something he was doing as _himself_ , not as the Satellite's Department of Security’s Secretary.

“Thank you, Airstrike,” he replied, pausing for a moment before continuing. “..What happens next?”

“I’m glad you asked that, because I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

Crowbar’s optics blinked.

_Huh?_

“What do you think should happen next, Crowbar?” the seeker continued. “What would _you_ do?”

Crowbar swallowed hard. Airstrike had asked him a question, and it was his _duty_ to give her an appropriate answer. But he couldn’t help the overwhelming sense of pride that was flowing through his spark. He was still being allowed to work on this case, as if he was an actual member of a police force. 

_Like an Autobot._

“I would..” Crowbar straightened his composure, and held his helm up high. “I’d go back to Counterfeit. Ask him about his past, his allies, or former acquaintances.”

The corners of Airstrike’s mouth began to turn into a slight smile as she listened to her secretary.

“With this being a matter of security, we shouldn’t rule anything or anyone out,” he concluded.

“Very well put, Crowbar,” the security chief responded. “That being said—”

_“..He could be a Decepticon.”_

Airstrike stopped, her expression...unamused.

“...That was a joke...”

Airstrike sighed internally and thanked Primus.

 _“Very funny,”_ she replied sarcastically. “As I was saying, following up with Counterfeit is ideal, especially with the situation being as fresh as it is. Time is critical, and we cannot afford to waste it.” 

Crowbar nodded, agreeing with every word she spoke. The jet opened her mouth to continue, but she was being interrupted by the sound of her office door opening. One of the younger officers, about Crowbar’s age, poked his helm through the parted doorway.

“Thank you for knocking. What is it, Scooter?” Airstrike asked.

“Sorry, boss. But, uh, Crowbar’s got a call on the main line.”

“He’s a bit busy at the moment,” she replied. “If you’re not doing anything perhaps you could fill in for him as a temporary secretary.”

“Well, the way the guy was talking it sounded like a personal call.”

Immediately, Crowbar’s optics flickered and his spark pulsed.

_Radar?_

 

* * *

 

Counterfeit stood outside of Mr. Wheeler’s Warehouse, tapping his pede. He was usually a rather patient mech, but today was not a day to be patient.

The monoformer looked up, and his optics began to drift across the dim flickers of far away stars. Somewhere out there, Arsenal was waiting for him. _Needing_ him. 

The mech then placed his hand over his spark. There was a feeling in there that he hadn’t felt before. It was a strong feeling, slightly overwhelming, yet it was comforting. Thinking about Arsenal brought this feeling, so he knew it had to be a good one.

He liked Arsenal a lot. 

They were friends. They were co-workers. They were roommates.

They were—

_“Son, what are you doing?”_

Counterfeit’s stargazing and brief introspection came to an abrupt halt at the voice. He looked around, then down to see Shortfuse looking up at him.

“O-Oh! Hey, Shortfuse! I was just, uh...waiting.”

The medic raised and optical ridge and folded his arms.

“You were... _waiting...?_ ”

Counterfeit nodded.

“Yup.”

“Ok, I’ll bite. Who or _what_ are you waiting for?”

Before Counterfeit could go into his spiel about the recent turn of events, the sudden sound of a motorcycle pulling up caught both mechs’ attention. Crowbar Transformed just as quick.

“Sorry I’m late,” Crowbar apologize, “Traffic is terrible this time of day.”

 _“HIM?!?”_ Shortfuse shouted.

“I know, I’m not the most exciting person to see rolling up,” Crowbar confessed. 

Shortfuse half-laughed at the remark.

“You can say that again,” Shortfuse said.

“It’s inside,” Counterfeit interrupted. The larger mech lead the way into the shop, with Shortfuse making up the rear.

“Can someone _PLEASE_ tell me what the hell is going on?!” he shouted.

 _“Only if you promise not to yell in my business, please and thank you.”_  

The attention was brought to Mr. Wheeler, who was cleaning up a rather odd looking thing. A small, antique looking device that looked as if it hadn’t been used in centuries.

Shortfuse bit his tongue. His mood was changing fast and he was getting more and more irritated by the second. Something was going on and he didn’t know what. But knowing that Counterfeit was involved, and Crowbar as well, he wasn’t feeling too optimistic. 

 _“Now,”_ Mr. Wheeler began, “Counterfeit tells me you’ve got a signal you can’t track.”

Crowbar nodded, staring at the device Counterfeit had mentioned over the earlier call. He had never seen anything like it before. It certainly looked old and antique like..

Needless to say, Crowbar had his doubts about it’s efficacy.

“Well,” the segway continued, “I’ve got just the thing. _This_ ,” he said, giving the object a gentle pat, “is—”

“It’s a Signal Positioning System. Used during the Organic War Period on Cybertron,” Shortfuse explained as soon as he saw it. The nuclear warhead began began to chuckle. “I haven’t seen one of those in _forever._ ”

All optics turned to the minibot.

“What? I’m old.”

“That makes two of us,” Mr. Wheeler retorted. “But yes, that is exactly what this is.”

“Weren’t those deemed illegal by the Galactic Council under the Intergalactic Espionage Act?” Crowbar asked hesitantly.

 _“Are you insinuating that I horde contraband in my warehouse?”_ asked Mr. Wheeler with a menacing aura.

“N-No…! I just, I remember reading about it at the academy..”

Shortfuse began to laugh at the younger mech’s response.

“Well, maybe if had you stayed a little longer you would’ve learned that SPS’s were legalized after a modified version was introduced for commercial use.”

“Precisely,” Mr. Wheeler agreed.

“So...which version is this one?” Counterfeit asked.

“Neither,” Mr. Wheeler stated. “It’s a prototype. _The original._ ”

“Well, I’ll be damned. How’s you get your hands on _that_ , Wheeler?” Shortfuse asked, rather impressed.

“I have my sources. Consider me a collector, if you will.”

He says ‘collector,’ others would say _‘hoarder..’_

“Hey, say no more. I’m ex-military, so I know when not to ask any more questions,” the minibot laughed.

Mr. Wheeler laughed as well.

“Much appreciated,” the other mech replied.

“Not to interrupt such _riveting_ conversation,” Crowbar began, sarcastically, “but I’d like to get back to the task at hand.”

“Yes, right,” said Mr. Wheeler, taking the device into his hands. He rolled himself out from behind the counter and approached Crowbar, handing the motorcycle the SPS unit.

“Take this mysterious signal Counterfeit told me about and reroute it into the device. After installing it into my ship’s computer console, it should be able to guide you to wherever the signal originated.”

“Ok, now hold on,” Shortfuse interrupted. He looked at Counterfeit. “Are you _leaving?”_

Counterfeit nodded slowly.

“I am,” the monoformer replied.

“But he won’t be going alone,” Crowbar added, “I’m going with him.”

Shortfuse rolled his optics and huffed.

“As if that makes things any better,” Shortfuse grumbled.

“Shortfuse, let me explain,” Counterfeit offered, only to be stopped by the medic.

“You can explain on the way there,” the medic said. “I’m going with you.”

 

* * *

 

Surge had gone back into his room. He was lying on his berth.

With both Counterfeit and Shortfuse away from the small clinic, he was alone.

In more ways than one.

The power cell initiated an internal command and his chest plating began to transform away, leaving only his bare spark. He took his servo and placed it over it. He could feel the fragments of Gizmo and Doodad’s spark flicker and kiss over his finger tips.

He sighed, feeling a wave of emotion begin to flow over him.

Suddenly, there was a knock at his door, and Surge immediately closed his chest panels tightly once again.

He got up and opened the door, hoping to see Counterfeit standing there.

But it was Shortfuse.

“Surge, I need you to watch the clinic for a few days. Maybe a week.”

Surge’s optics blinked behind his visor. This was...very unexpected.

“Wh...Where are you going?” the power cell asked, following the clinic’s head medic to the small storage room was.

Shortfuse made a strained groaning sound.

“Counterfeit has somehow gotten himself involved in a rescue mission for Arsenal, to make a long story short.”

Surge said nothing, watching the minibot forge together a travel medic’s kit.

“...So, you’re going with him?” he asked, finally breaking the short silence.

“Of course I am,” he confirmed. “That Crowbar fella is going with him, and I’ll be a pile of scrap metal before I let that pair of morons venture out into space all by themselves.”

Again, Surge said nothing, taking some time to process what was being told to him.

“Are you leaving, like, _right_ _now?”_

“After everyone gets their physicals done and travel slips signed by Torque we’ll be off. Wheeler’s getting his ship ready as we speak. You remember Wheeler, right?”

Surge folded his arms and put on a cross look.

“That mech who kicked Counterfeit to the curb after they arrived on the Satellite? Leaving Counterfeit homeless until you found him in that alleyway?”

“That’s the one,” said Shorfuse. “But that was a long, long time ago, Surge. They’ve moved past that,” he added.

Even so, Surge still held onto that minor grudge. He remembered how angry Counterfeit was. He was a different person then. Not the cheery, warm-sparked smiler most people knew him as today.

Surge still held onto a lot of things.

“Like I said,” Shortfuse began, “It’s not going to be a long trip,” the warhead assured.

“I..”

Several things crossed Surge’s mind and spark. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he was _trying_ to say. But the older mech could sense some uncertainty from the younger and went over to him, tucking away the medical kit into his subspace. He gave him a firm pat on the shoulder and gave it an endearing squeeze.

“You’ll be alright, son. You’re a good medic.”

Surge smiled a little, despite what he was currently feeling.

 

* * *

 

Shortfuse ex-vented as he sat on one of the crates inside of the Circuit Saloon’s storage room, wiping himself off before any stains could set in.

“Was that quick enough for ya, Shorty?” Cassette asked. The shorter mech laughed a little, feeling another wave of heat rising to his faceplates.

“..When I get back to the station I’m going to need to longer version of _that.”_

Cassette giggled.

“Pressed all the right buttons, did I?” she asked smugly.

“As if you don’t do that every time,” he said back to her. She just smiled as she bent over to kiss him. He took her hand into his.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

“You better,” she said. “Or I’ll kick your aft.”

Shortfuse chuckled as he pressed her knuckle joints to his lips and kissed them.

_“I promise, Settie.”_

 

* * *

 

Counterfeit and Crowbar waited in the lobby of the small hospital unit. They had just finished being seen by Doctor Torque. The pair had been examined and approved for space travel, and their medical slips were signed by the medic and his secretary. All that was left was waiting for Shortfuse to be seen and they would be off.

_There was a very awkward silence between the two of them._

Crowbar, who most people tried to avoid, didn’t have very good “people skills.” Being social wasn’t his thing.

Counterfeit, on the other hand, was _very social_. However, sitting next to Crowbar knowing that he had just taken something from Torque’s turned back strut had made him feel a little nervous. But he decided that maybe some conversation could lighten the mood.

“You sounded kinda disappointed when I called you earlier.”

“What?” Crowbar asked, not knowing what he was talking about. But suddenly, it dawned on him. “Oh, um...I just...thought you would be someone else calling me, that’s all.”

Counterfeit turned and looked at Crowbar, who was staring at the floor.

He looked really sad.

“Oh,” Counterfeit said, starting to twiddle his thumbs. “A friend of yours?”

Crowbar then began to smile, but his optics still flickered with sorrow.

“No,” Crowbar answered, pausing for a brief moment, “my boyfriend.”

Counterfeit’s optics began to twinkle, and he playfully nudged Crowbar with his elbow.

“Well, look at you, Mister Hotwheels!”

Crowbar laughed a little at the remark.

“So, who is it?” the monoformer continued.

Taking out his personal data pad, Crowbar quickly pulled up an image of him next to Radar, the taller mech kissing him on the cheek.

 _“Radar,”_ Crowbar said sweetly.

Counterfeit’s face immediately lit up.

“Oh, wow! The Head of Communications and Technology! He’s a big shot, isn’t he? How long have you two been together?”

“A while now,” Crowbar sighed. “A couple million years or so.” He then reached into his subspace and took out a small vial of his own innermost energon. “The next time I see him...I’m going to ask him to be my Conjunx Endura. I’ve waited long enough, and I’m sure he has, too.”

Counterfeit beamed as Crowbar put the vial back into his subspace. He was happy for Crowbar. It must be nice to have someone like that, someone to love in such a way that you want to give them your own energon. Counterfeit wondered if maybe one day he’d have someone like that.

Being a monoformer, people usually had one of two initial thoughts about you. You were either looked down upon for being “useless and untransformable,” or as a _novelty_. For most of his life, Counterfeit was accustomed to the former rather than the later of that statement. But he never let that drag him down. He hoped that when people looked at him, they saw his spark first.

And that’s what Shortfuse saw on that fateful day when he found him alone in the alleyway. He was reminded of this as he saw the minibot enter the hospital and walk towards him and Crowbar.

“Got your slips?” he asked.

“Yup!” Counterfeit replied, giving the other a bright smile. Crowbar gave a silent nod.

“Good. Now wait here while I get looked over. Shouldn’t take too long.”

And it didn’t. Doctor Torque gave Shortfuse his physical and ok’d him for space travel. He did, however, make a few comments about oiling his joints more often, but Shortfuse brushed them off. He was doing just fine for a mech his age.

So there they were, Counterfeit, Crowbar, and Shortfuse, all having the proper medical examinations done with the paperwork to match. 

They were ready to go.

 

* * *

 

“There’s enough fuel to last a few weeks, just as a precaution, but don’t go wasting it,” Mr. Wheeler said sternly.

“We won’t,” Counterfeit assured.

“Alright then,” the half transformed segway nodded.

Counterfeit approached his old manager and extended his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Wheeler,” he said softly.

Mr. Wheeler smiled a bit and returned the gesture, taking his old employee’s hand into his own and giving it a firm shake.

“You’re a good mech, Counterfeit. You always were.”

Counterfeit smiled bashfully, then turned to go take his position in the pilot’s seat of the Cosmic Sunrise. Crowbar had already acquainted himself with the passenger’s chair, and was busy affixing the Signal Positioning System into the main computer console of Mr. Wheeler’s ship. There was only one last step before they could take off, and that was to download the data that had been sent to the Satellite’s Signal Receiver into the device.

“It shouldn’t take long,” Crowbar said, reaching up to his helm and initiating a hailing frequency to the Communications and Technology Building.

As Counterfeit got adjusted in the pilot's chair and began to familiarize himself with the small vessel’s bells and whistles, Shortfuse loaded the bottles of engex and cubes of consumable energon gifted to him from Cassette into the back of the craft.

After finishing yet another brief call with Synchron and thanking him just as briefly, he turned to look at the other two.

“Alright, gentlemech, in a few minutes we should be ready for takeoff. The SPS is downloading the file now.”

“Let me just, uh, see if I remember how to fly this thing..” said Counterfeit, a little nervously. It had been quite some time since he had flown a non-sentient transport vehicle. But after a few moments, his mechanical muscle memory started kicking in and he began switching switches and pushing buttons. Suddenly, the Cosmic Sunrise hummed to life, and the entire ship was now fully powered on. Counterfeit smiled wildly in excitement.

He was ready to go.

He was ready to pilot a ship again.

He was ready to see Arsenal again.

He was ready to...to see Surge running towards the ship?

The taller mech reset his optics just to make sure he was seeing things right.

Which he was.

“Surge..?” he questioned aloud.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be watching the clinic while we’re gone,” said an unaware Shortfuse.

“No, I mean, he’s coming _this way..”_ he clarified.

Crowbar turned and looked out of his window to that that yes, the power cell was indeed running towards them.

Shortfuse stood up from where he had gotten himself comfortable in the back of the Cosmic Sunrise and slid open the side door that was behind Crowbar.

And there was Surge, bracing himself on his knee joints and venting hard.

“Son, what are you doin’ up here??” asked Shortfuse.

“..You...forgot something,” the other minibot huffed.

Shortfuse gave him a confused look. He was sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

Perhaps his age was catching up to his mental circuitry.

“What’d I forget?”

_“Me.”_

 

* * *

 

 _Ten_  

“The file transfer is complete,” Crowbar announced.

_Nine_

“Alright!” Counterfeit exclaimed. “Is everyone’s seat magnetism functioning properly?”

_Eight_

“Yep.”

_Seven_

“Uh-huh.”

_Six_

“Actually, I think mine’s a little—”

_Five_

“Shut up, Crowbar.”

_Four_

“Hold on to your helms,” Counterfeit laughed, “my takeoffs can be a little bumpy.”

_Three_

Counterfeit smiled as he looked through the translucent panel and stared off into space.

_Two_

Arsenal was out there.

_One_

And he was going to bring him home.

 

_Zero_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh this one is massive...took me forever to complete lmao
> 
> anyway, thanks to anyone and everyone who actually reads this fic. it means a lot to me <3


	13. The People You Thought You Knew

“Tilt your head back, tilt your head back!!” yelled shortfuse. Crowbar did as he was instructed, cupping his pointed nose with his left hand, containing the energon that was attempting to gush from it. The faulty magnetism of Crowbar’s seat had knocked him into the passenger side console upon Counterfeit’s rough take-off.

“ _Oughhhh_ ,” Crowbar groaned. “I feel lightheaded..”

“You’ll be fine,” Shortfuse said flatly, taking a gently used rag from his subspace. “ _Here_.”

Crowbar turned around in his seat, saw the gesture, and took the rag.

“..Thanks.”

Shortfuse grunted and got settled back into his own.

“I’m sorry, Crowbar,” Counterfeit frowned. He felt really bad. He didn’t mean for Crowbar to get hurt..

“It’s alright,” the motorcycle said, wiping away the energon. “I’ll just make a note to have the vehicle properly inspected after we get back. For maintenance purposes, obviously.”

“Uhhh, I dunno if you should do that,” Counterfeit replied nervously. ”Mr. Wheeler might not appreciate that..” 

“Why? It’s not stolen, is it?” Crowbar asked with concern.

Counterfeit cleared his vocalizer.

“H-How about we listen to some tunes?” the monoformer blurted out, changing the subject quickly. He pressed a few buttons and turned a dial, and soon the cabin of the cruiser began to fill with some soft, instrumental music.

Surge had heard this song before. It was one that he had slow-danced with Gizmo to. He remembered it like it happened just the other day.

 

* * *

 

“You know the clinic is closed, right?”

Startled, Surge almost dropped the dust rag he was holding. He turned. Standing at the doorway was Gizmo, the power cell that he worked with. He acknowledged her presence, but promptly returned to cleaning off the lab equipment.

“Yeah,” he said back to her. Gizmo chuckled as she walked into the room, making her way towards him.

“Then you also know you don’t have to keep working.”

Surge hummed an affirmative note, but kept cleaning the equipment. Gizmo leaned up against the table that held the medical instrument, watching the other power cell continue. A minute had gone by before Surge had stopped to look at the pink mech. 

She was just _looking_ at him. 

And it made him feel nervous.

“..Is there something you need?” he finally asked.

“Just wanted to talk a little,” she answered back.

“About what?”

“About _you_ ,” Gizmo said, almost suggestively. Surge could’ve laughed.

“What about me?”

Gizmo grinned.

_“Are you single?”_

Immediately, a rush of energon flooded into the fuel lines under his face. He looked away from her flirtatious gaze and returned to his off-duty task, putting more effort into it as a distraction. Gizmo just chuckled.

“My bad, my bad. Didn’t mean to embarrass ya.”

“I-It’s fine,” he stuttered. “..But yes. I am.”

“Oh, ok,” she nodded, watching the other power cell go back to work. 

“ _Ya ready to mingle?_ ”

He stopped to look at her, his cheek plates still flushed with energon.

“I..” he began, not really knowing what to say. “I thought you were with Doodad.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked with a tone.

“The constant flirting, the aft grabs, _the_ _paint transfers.._ ”

“I was being sarcastic,” she laughed.

“Oh.”

“I’m asking for a friend,” she clarified.

_Oh…!_

“I, uh...I dunno,” he shrugged. “I just got out of a bad relationship some time ago, a-and..”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” said Gizmo. “All I’m saying is, if you’re interested, I know someone who thinks you’re fine as hell.”

Surge couldn’t believe what he was hearing. _Someone_ thinking _he_ was fine as hell? Impossible. Not him. Not some generic, workaholic power cell like him.

“Really...” Surge said, disbelievingly.

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” the pink mech replied. “He literally will not shut up about you.”

Surge blushed again while adding more cleaning solution to the rag.

“...What does he say?”

Gizmo smiled as she watched Surge fight back his own grin.

“Let’s see,” she started, “he talks about your hands a lot. Like, a lot. Oh, and he wants you to kiss him, that’s for damn sure.” Gizmo then laughed. “I’m not doing him any justice. He’s much more descriptive when he talks about you.”

Had Surge an engine, it would’ve revved in excitement. The thought of someone having those kinds of thoughts about him was...not something he considered often.

“Ok, so are you gonna tell me who he is or are you going to make me guess?”

Gizmo raised an optical ridge behind her visor.

“So you _are_ interested..”

“I mean...it depends on who it is..”

“It’s Doodad.”

Surge’s optic flashed.

“ _Doodad?!_ ”

“Yeah,” Gizmo nonchalantly replied. “He was too shy to come to you so he asked me to instead.”

Surge’s spark fluttered _just a little bit_. He couldn’t deny that he had thought Doodad was a very cute mech. Very cute, very silly….very, uh, _ditzy_ at times, but all around a good mech.

“..And you’re cool with that?” he asked.

“Sure, yeah,” she said. “I’m cool with it. Well, a little more than just cool with it,” she admitted.

Surge stopped cleaning and set the cloth down on the table. He was now giving Gizmo his undivided attention. She noticed, and continued.

“We’ve actually been discussing the idea of a third for a while,” she said.

He was listening to what she was saying, but part of him still couldn’t believe it. She wanted to be with him, _too?_  

“Wait, hold on,” he interrupted. “You..?”

She didn’t even let him finish his question, as she had already dimmed her visor to show him her optics more clearly.

_Gizmo winked at Surge._

The power cell’s spark crackled in his chest. He couldn’t deny his attraction to Gizmo. She was cool, confident, and so suave it could make any mech swoon. 

 _Especially_ Surge.

But the catbot had gotten his glossa, and he found himself unable to give an adequate response.

Mostly because he was afraid he’d stutter.

Fortunately for him, Gizmo continued leading their conversation, and her actions were speaking loud and clear. She slid her hand across the edge of the table towards him, palm up. He paused for a moment, his mind going back and forth with pros and cons of the situation. Most of the cons came from the hurt of his previous relationship, but the pro that spoke the loudest said,

_‘It’s time to move on.’_

Hesitantly, he took his hand and placed it on top of Gizmo’s. It was warm, and her digits curled comfortably around his servo. She gently pulled it towards her lips and planted a soft kiss on his knuckle joints.

Surge watched as her visor darkened again and she lifted herself properly back onto her pedes. She began to walk towards the exit, feeling confident that she had gotten her points across. She didn’t want to push anything. Gizmo knew that she could be a little on the intimidating side if she was being _too_ forward about her intentions, or in this case, the intentions of both herself _and_ Doodad. She decided that she’d let Surge take the lead now. He was free to decline their offer, and she’d understand if he did.

She had watched him work for some time now. He was indeed a workaholic. He had a great work ethic, and she wondered if he would feel like dating coworkers would be a hindrance to his job performance. 

“Hey..”

But then again, _maybe not_.

She turned just before she reached the metal door. Surge had pulled out his new personal datapad and was fiddling with it. After a moment, some soft, instrumental music began to play.

“..Do you want to dance?” he asked.

Gizmo smiled.

 

* * *

 

Arsenal had finished his business with the Platinum Star Pleasures outlet and headed back out onto the fueling station’s main platform. There were several stalls and vendors of various sizes, shapes, colors, and species. Each one he passed called out to him, wanting the gunformer to come and buy something. Little did they know, he didn’t have much currency left on him. Most of it he had just spent on a quick stress relief. 

He had a little bit of change left, however,  and he figured he’d give it back to Snaggletooth.

He thought about that as he walked to the bar where he knew the gatormech would be. About the small kindness he did of giving him some extra money. Was it some kind of peace offering? A means to make amends for all the drunken yelling and verbal abuse he had been dealt with? 

“ _Perhaps so,_ ” he thought.

But that train of thought shifted tracks as he walked into the bar. 

It was rowdy. There were all kinds of people from different walks of life, organic, mechanical, a mix of the two..singing songs and dancing drunkenly together. It was a comforting sight. It was almost like..he was back at the Circuit Saloon. 

Oh, how that realization made his spark ache terribly.

He missed being at the Saloon. He missed working there. He missed the generous customers that tipped him well and treated him like he was a person. He missed the monotony of working shifts. He missed Cassette.

And Surge. And Shortfuse.

...And Counterfeit.

He missed his smile. And the funny jokes he’d tell. And listening to him go on and on about piloting ships and traveling through space back in the day. And the different stories of things he had seen or heard while having to walk everywhere. And how he’d walk slower intentionally so he could keep up with him. And the way he looked at him.

Arsenal missed Counterfeit.

 

* * *

 

Snaggletooth had just finished his third cheap shot of engex. Tasted terribly. But hey, it was better than nothing. Which, had the day’s profit been any less, that’s exactly what he would have gotten.

Nothing.

He figured it best not to blow all his credits on actual _good_ engex. He wanted some more cygarettes for the road, and he thought he saw a vendor outside selling some that he liked. He decided to check it out after he was finished drinking. He quickly downed the last shot he had ordered and was about to stand up to leave when he saw Arsenal walk in through the door.

“Aw, _cripes_...is it time to go?” he muttered under his breath, watching as the smaller mech was looking around. Snaggletooth growled as he thought about having to get back onto a ship with _Traffic_. 

He was too sober to start dealing with her again.

But as Arsenal finally saw him, he tried to swallow down his anger with the remaining tastes of his drink.

Arsenal, the mech of few words that he was, approached the booth and set the change down on the table.

“..Thanks,” he said.

Snaggletooth’s optics blinked. He wasn’t expecting to get any change back...let alone a ‘thank you.’ He was almost touched by the small gesture, but whatever feeling that brought to his spark, it was quickly snuffed out by an overwhelming guilt.

“R-Right. Well...you’re welcome,” he said back. 

They looked at each other for a moment, not really saying anything. Suddenly, Arsenal had decided that the awkward moment was over and had turned to leave. He had said what he wanted to say to the makeshift medic and felt that was good enough.

“Wait a second, wait a second,” he heard Snaggletooth say behind him. He turned back around and saw the beastformer take the change and count it, along with some extra he had pulled out of his subspace. “..let me, uh, buy you a drink. How’s that sound, hm?”

Arsenal stared blankly at him. He wasn’t a drinker, mostly because nothing he drank could make him hammered enough to forget anything. 

He wanted to decline. He didn’t really like Snaggletooth and the idea of spending time with him made him feel a little...strange.

But then he looked at his optics.

They looked sad, and lonely.

Arsenal wondered if that was what his own optics looked like when Counterfeit had found him on that fateful day in the alley.

He sat down on the rounded seat cushion, giving adequate space between himself and Snaggletooth. 

 

* * *

 

Arsenal had ordered himself a small cube of engex with some bubbly additives mixed in. Snaggletooth had done the same, just to make things easier on the barkeep. They both took a sip and were not impressed. It tasted just like the price, which was to be expected.

Snaggletooth cleared his vocalizer.

“I don’t remember the last time we had a drink together.”

“We never have,” Arsenal replied, short and bittersweet. Snaggletooth made an affirmative sound in his throat and took another sip. Arsenal did the same.

“Look, Arsenal..”

“You don’t have to say anything,” the grey mech interrupted, looking down into his drink.

Snaggletooth grunted in frustration.

“You’re right, I don’t have to say anything,” he began, “but I want to.”

Arsenal looked up from his drink to look at Snaggletooth. He held his glass to his lips and was staring off onto some fixed point in the bar.

“It’s ok,” Arsenal said. He had a feeling this would be some kind of awkward apology, and he wanted to spare them both the uncomfortableness of having to sit through it.

“No, it’s not..” Snaggletooth replied. His voice was low and somber. “Nothing about what any of us do is ok.”

Arsenal couldn’t argue with that.

“The way you’re _treated_ isn’t ok,” Snaggletooth continued. “...the things I _say_ to you aren't ok.”

Arsenal hung his head down a little, studying the glass in his hand as some kind of distraction.

“..I’m sorry, Arsenal.”

It was an apology he thought he’d ever get. It made his spark feel weird. Arsenal was receiving a surge of mixed emotions. It would probably take some time for him to process them, but if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was how genuine Snaggletooth was.

Forgiveness is a long process. It takes time before there’s any kind of closure. Arsenal wasn’t ready to say ‘I forgive you,’ because he wasn’t there yet. Instead, he decided to say something that he didn’t think he’d say himself to Snaggletooth, but he felt the need to say it. It was a good time to do so, and he was unsure of when he’d ever get another chance to.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said softly.

Snaggletooth gave him a confused look. All Arsenal ever did aboard the ship was cower or cry.

“For what?” the beastformer asked.

“..For what she does to you..”

A wave of strong emotions overcame Snaggletooth. He didn’t...he didn’t know Arsenal knew about that. What would have normally turned into a brushed off comment or an angry tirade against the smaller mech took the form of heavily lubricated optics. 

Arsenal personally didn’t like it when others saw him upset, and he thought that maybe Snaggletooth, being the “cold” and “very rough around the edges” mech as he had made himself out to be, wanted a moment to collect himself. So, he got up and left, leaving the medic alone with his dignity.

However much Traffic had left him with.

 

* * *

 

As time went by during the course of their journey out into space, Surge thought more about some of the faded memories of his deceased spouses. He wasn’t much for conversation, unlike the other three in the cargo ship, so he sat quietly, thinking to himself about the past. But Surge’s reminiscing was cut short by the sound of the Signal Positioning System. Immediately, Shortfuse’s attention was grabbed. 

 _He knew that sound_.

“Wow! We must be getting close!” Counterfeit exclaimed, a bright smile stretching across his face. His spark began to tingle in his chest. 

The minibot doctor wasn’t smiling, though. He leapt out of his seat and leaned over between the taller mechs, optics fixated on the device that was connected into the console of the craft. 

Sensing that something was off, Crowbar spoke up.

“What’s wrong?”

Shortfuse furrowed his optical ridges.

“There’s someone there. Someone close.”

Counterfeit checked the radar screen on the main console of the vehicle. As far as he could tell, they weren’t anywhere near another vessel.

“Are you sure about that, Shortfuse?” the monoformer asked. “I’m not seeing anything on the radar..”

“Maybe the signal tracker needs a new battery,” the power cell joked.

“No,” said Shortfuse. “It’s a cloaking alert. _We can’t see them_.”

“I-Impossible,” Crowbar stammered, his spark fritzing with anxiety, “we’re still in neutral space territory. Cloaking is only permitted in authorized military and sanctioned war zones.”

“Well, I hate to break it to ya, but some people don’t like to play by the rules,” said the warhead. 

“So, what should we do?” Surge asked aloud.

“Given this unknown threat I say we turn around and contact the Intergalactic Council of Allied Races, as protocol would dictate.” Crowbar suggested.

“Bah,” Shortfuse objected, “they don’t give a cyberrat’s afterburner about Cybertronians. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve left our Intergalactic Representative out to rust given the current war with our kind...”

“Well, I say we keep going,” Counterfeit spoke up. “I...We’ve gotten this far, and...and I don’t want to give up just yet...!”

Counterfeit spoke as if a beacon of hope against the darkness of uncertainty. His spark burned in his chest, flickering bright with determination. He was unsure of if he believed in destiny, but as he looked out into the expanse of space before him, he could feel something. Something was calling out to him.

_“Help me, Counterfeit.”_

It was Arsenal.

“Alright,” Shortfuse began, sitting back down into his seat, “You’re the pilot.”

Crowbar quickly shot Counterfeit a hard look.

“This is ill advised..! We need to do this right or there could be severe consequences!”

The monoformer’s spark sank. Crowbar was using that same tone of voice he always used when trying to reprimand him. It made him feel bad. It made him feel bad about himself. But this wasn’t about him. This was about _Arsenal_.

Counterfeit turned to Crowbar, sitting just a bit taller now, and gave _him_ a stern look.

“..Crowbar,” Counterfeit started, “ _be quiet_ _._ ”

The motorcycle, initially wide-optic’d at being stood up to by the monoformer like that, huffed and folded his arms over his chest and looked out of his passenger side window.

“Fine,” he spat bitterly, “but if something happens, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Surge began to chuckle.

“If we see any Decepticons we’ll say you told us s—”

Before Surge could finish his sarcastic remark, the Cosmic Sunrise bellowed with a hard, thunderous, crashing sound. Immediately, the craft lost all power, and began to spin out. The main console, along with the Signal Positioning System prototype, sparked uncontrollably. Counterfeit pulled hard at the steering peripheral, trying to gain as much control over the ship as he could. After a few moments, the Cosmic Sunrise stopped spinning and gently floated.

Counterfeit’s hand went under the pilot’s side console and he flipped a switch. The lights inside of the cargo ship were now an unfriendly red color. The monitor sitting between Counterfeit and Crowbar now had a weak visual, but it was indicating a brief damage report. Barely..

“Is everyone alright?!” Shortfuse shouted.

“What was _that?!?_ ” Crowbar screeched.

“I’m ok,” Counterfeit said sorrowfully. He wanted to cry. His mind raced with pessimistic thoughts.

_He felt like Arsenal was now slipping further and further away…_

“Please say ‘an asteroid’ or something,” Surge groaned, rubbing his helm where it had hit the back of his seat.

“Feels like an EMP blast,” Shortfuse said.

“Does this thing have its own comm frequency? I need to call Airstrike,” Crowbar announced.

“It does, but I dunno how far it’ll go while we’re in emergency power mode,” Counterfeit confirmed.

“Try hailing our assailant,” Shortfuse suggested instead. “If we tell them we’re neutrals maybe they’ll let us go about our business.”

Crowbar scoffed at that.

“I am _not_ a neutral…!”

“If it means saving our iron hides then you’re going to be the most neutral bot here, _understand?!_ ”

Crowbar was about to make a quick remark, but the Cosmic Sunrise was hit with another EMP blast, shutting down the remaining power supply of the ship.

They were now at the mercy of whoever had been firing at them, and from the look of things, they weren’t going to be so merciful.

 

* * *

 

Traffic had been sitting alone inside of “her” ship for a while now. She sat in the captain’s chair, counting the money she had gotten from this trip’s haul. Every haul they made, she saved her share. She hoarded her funds greedily. Every now and again she’d remember why she was so fond of currency, but most times her memory was hazy.

It almost hurt to remember.

Even still, she continued doing what she needed to do for herself. Who cared if a few crates of energon went missing? It was good money.

While she was looking at the figures projected from her personal datapad, the main terminal made an electronic chirping sound. It was a sound that annoyed Traffic, mostly because it stopped her from doing whatever it was that she was doing. It meant that the ship was receiving an audio call.

“What does he want _now?_ ” She grumbled, stuffing her datapad into the subspace behind her chest window. She got out of her comfy captain’s chair and sat in Snaggletooth’s. She pressed one of the buttons on the pilot’s grid, accepting the transmission.

“Traffic here,” she said with an annoyed tone.

“Ah, good. You’re there,” a soft, yet masculine voice replied.

“I’ll save you some time and tell you we’re about to head back to base. Just needed a quick pit stop.”

“I see,” said the voice. “Well, as much as I appreciate knowing _that_ , that’s not why I’m calling.”

Traffic just chuckled.

“Did you miss me?” she asked.

“No,” said the voice. “Not in the slightest.”

“Aww, don’t be like that,” she cooed. “Always playing hard to get..”

The voice on the other line cleared his vocalizer. He had told her over and over that he wasn’t interested, but she obviously had stopped taking hints long ago.

“Traffic,” he said, trying to bring her back to focus, “there’s a problem.”

“..What kind of problem?”

 

* * *

 

Not long after their exchange at the bar, Arsenal and Snaggletooth were being summoned back to the ship. 

It was time to go.

Arsenal had gotten back first, having left the bar before Snaggletooth. The latter had been shedding a few crocodile tears silently in one of the stalls of the bar’s lavatory when he had gotten Traffic’s message. But he quickly composed himself and rebuilt the walls around his spark and headed back to the ship.

Traffic was sitting in her chair, fingers laced together and resting on the glass panel of her chest. She looked unhappy, which wasn’t surprising or unusual.

Snaggletooth immediately went to his station and started warming up the engines for takeoff. Arsenal, who had been waiting for Snaggletooth by the doorway, began making his way back to his private quarters after he had sat down.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Traffic asked, her question laced with her own brand of personal venom.

“..My room,” he answered back. He wasn’t needed, so he figured he’d just wait in his room until they returned to base.

“Why?” the armored vehicle asked. “ _Is Counterfeit in there?_ ”

Arsenal stopped dead in his tracks, his spark pounding in its chamber. He felt sick. Anxious.Time felt both incredibly slow and fast at the same time. He couldn’t explain how he felt. It just wasn’t good. It was not a good feeling.

Traffic continued.

“So, who _is_ this Counterfeit and why were you asking him for help?”

Slowly, he turned around and walked back to the main section of the bridge. He stood where she could see him, but he made sure to be out of arm's reach of her. Primus only knew what she would do if she could put her hands on him right now.

“He’s—”

“He’s an old buddy’a mine,” Snaggletooth interrupted, his back still towards Traffic. He stared at the console in front of him, busying himself with adjusting this setting and that function, just to avoid her red, piercing gaze. “We play cards together every once in a while. Needed some extra creds so I thought I would shoot him a message. No big deal.”

Arsenal was absolutely speechless. Was Snaggletooth _helping_ him? The gunformer looked back at Traffic, who had a raised optical ridge at the gatormech.

“So it was _you_ that sent out the message?”

“Yep. It was me. Ready for takeoff on your mark, Captain,” Snaggletooth said, attempting to divert the conversation.

It didn’t work.

“What’s his altmode?”

“Hm?”

“You old friend Counterfeit. Surely you know what his altmode is.”

“Oh, yeah. A’course I do. It’s, ah, he’s a sports car.”

Traffic hummed an affirmative tone, then turned to Arsenal. They locked optics, and there was a disgusting grin on her face.

“You hear that, Arsenal? Counterfeit the Monoformer’s alt mode is a sports car.”

Arsenal’s optics began to well up with lubricant. 

_How did she know all of this?_

Traffic began to laugh. It sounded as nasty as that grin looked. Arsenal flinched as he saw her flex her metal fingers over the ends of the chair’s armrests. 

“So,” she began, “Not only do I have a traitor working for me, I’ve got a liar as well.”

The two other mechs remained silent. It was best not to say much when she was in one of her moods.

“Snaggletooth,” she said, breaking the silence. “Do you remember my old gun?”

“..I do.”

“Why don’t you tell Arsenal about him.”

Snaggletooth did not want to.

“Go ahead. _Tell him_.”

Snaggletooth cleared his vocalizer. He decided to keep it brief.

“His name was Artillery. He’s dead now.”

Arsenal didn’t like this. He didn’t like where this was going.

“ _He questioned my authority_ is what happened,” Traffic clarified.

Arsenal _really_ didn’t like where this was going.

“..But I forgive you, Arsenal. I’ll let this little mistake of yours go.”

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. What was the catch…?

Traffic chuckled.

“But I don't think Counterfeit will be able to.”

“W—What do you mean…?” Arsenal asked, boldly. Counterfeit was the most forgiving person he had ever met. Traffic didn’t know what she was talking about..

Again, she turned her helm to him. 

_“You’ve killed him.”_

The gunformer gave her a blank stare, his optics still teary from the whole conversation.

“Turns out,” she began again, “that little ‘help me’ message got to wherever you had intended, and a cargo class ship has been tracking our location. But don’t worry. The Clean Up Crew should be taking care of him or whoever else might be with him as we speak.”

 

* * *

 

It was like the calm before the storm. The four mechs aboard the Cosmic Sunrise were suspended in dread, and lack of artificial gravity, awaiting their fates of whoever was attacking them.

“Shortfuse,” Surge whispered, “what do we do?” His voice was shaky. He needed guidance.

The minibot doctor patted Surge on the shoulder kibble as comforting as he possibly could.

“There’s nothing we _can_ do, son.”

Surge’s mouth hung open, trying to let out some kind of reply, some rebuttal against Shortfuse’s defeated tone, but nothing came to him. So he said nothing. None of them said anything after that. They kept to themselves, occupying the remaining time of their existences with thoughts of those who they would likely never see again. Regrets of the past. Dreams and aspirations of the future that would never come to fruition.

All of those things were irrelevant now.

Crowbar reached into his subspace one last time and took out the Autobot badge he had made for himself. He affixed it onto his abdomen where he always put it. If he was about to go, he was about to do so with pride.

Suddenly, the crew of the Cosmic Sunrise fell back into their seats, as gravity was somehow being forced back upon them.

Crowbar hit his head again and groaned.

Counterfeit, trying to sit properly in the pilot’s chair, looked out the front window. They were still out in space. But then, a blinding light enveloped them and pierced through the clear glass panel. The mechs shielded their optics, wincing at the suddenness of it.

After a moment, adjusting to the light, they looked and saw they were now inside of a much larger ship. It looked like a standard Cybertronian, military grade shuttle used for transport. There were no insignias anywhere that they could see, so whether or not they had been captured by Autobots or Decpticons was indeterminate. Despite the large interior of the attacking vessel, there weren’t any crew members that they could see.

“Should...should we get out?” Crowbar asked.

“Could be a trap,” Shortfuse stated.

“Do you think it’s sentient?” Surge asked next. “The ship, I mean.”

“Oh, wow. That makes me uncomfortable, just thinking about it,” Counterfeit said. “I don’t like being inside of people...it makes me feel weird...”

Someone had apparently decided for them as to what would happen next. Their auditory receptors were filled with the sound of moving machinery.

“That can’t be good,” Surge said pessimistically.

And he was right.

_It wasn’t._

Counterfeit and Crowbar looked through their side windows to get a better glance at what was going on. There were large, mechanical cranes that had been transformed from panelings on the floor of this level of the ship. They moved and gripped the sides of the Cosmic Sunrise, crushing the exterior slightly, but enough to cause visible internal damage. Mr. Wheeler’s spaceship was then picked up and raised above the flooring.

Panicked, Crowbar tried to manually open his door.

“It’s locked…!” he exclaimed. 

Shortfuse sighed.

“Of course it's locked. We’ve got no power and the last operation the ship was in was emergency mode. It’s auto-locked.” He tsked at him. “Didn’t that Autobot school teach you _anything?_ ”

“Uh, I think we’ve got a bigger issue than what Crowbar does and doesn’t know,” Surge said, pointing towards the main window at the front of the ship. All optics went to where the power cell was pointing. A giant, metal appendage with an appropriately proportionate buzzsaw attached to the end of it had transformed in front of the Cosmic Sunrise. The quad of Cybertronians watched as a laser light mounted into the equipment turned on illuminated into the interior. It appeared to be making calculated measurements.

 “Alright. Everyone remain calm and don’t make any sudden movements,” Shortfuse ordered, only moments before the sawblade whirred to life. 

Counterfeit whined. 

Mr. Wheeler was not going to be happy about this.

As the spinning blade hit the top of the vessel, sparks flew in all directions. The Cosmic Sunrise creaked and groaned as it was being sawed in half. Counterfeit, Crowbar, Shortfuse, and Surge all pressed themselves against the side walls of the cruiser. It was easier for the minibots, but as for the other two, things got uncomfortable pretty quickly.

But nothing was as uncomfortable as when the small ship had been successfully sawed in half, and the metal clamps holding the ship up pulled the two halves apart and dumped the rescue team onto the floor.

And yes, Crowbar did hit his head.

Again.

For the third time.

As they began to get themselves up and assess their personal damages, a short figure behind a control podium emerged.

“Well, well, well,” the unknown mech said, his vocalizer outputting a cocky and arrogant tone, “what do we have—oh, frag _me_...” 

“Oh, my god..” Surge sighed. Part of him had wished _he_ had been sawed in half.

“Sprocket..” Crowbar snarled. If he still had his fangs, he would have been baring them.

“Wait a second, you _know_ him?!” Surge exclaimed, looking up at Crowbar.

“I used to work with him,” Crowbar said. “A long time ago, back when—”

“Back when you were actually a respectable person, not some Autobot, apparently,” Sprocket interrupted. The indigo power cell then turned his attention to Surge. “Hey, Surgie. Still lookin’ good after all these years, I see,” he said jokingly.

“Go short circuit yourself,” Surge hissed.

“Don’t tell me you _also_ know this piece of traitorous scrap metal,” Crowbar said to Surge.

“Unfortunately,” Surge confirmed. “...He’s my ex.”

“Oh, well, this is kinda awkward,” Counterfeit said.

“Alright, family reunion time is over,” Sprocket announced, taking control over the conversation. “Now look, we can do this the _easy way_ or the _hard way_.”

Shortfuse began to laugh.

“You’re a bit out numbered and too unarmed to be making such statements,” the nuke said.

“It’s not just him,” Crowbar stated. “There are two others. Unless,” Crowbar continued, “I’ve been replaced.”

“Oh, no,” Sprocket said back. “No one could ever replace you, Crowbar. And dare I say, we all kind of miss you.”

“Is that so?” Crowbar questioned, folding his arms over his chest. “Because you all didn’t seem to miss me at all after you had sold me out to the authorities to save yourselves..!” 

Crowbar was still very bitter about that.

“Look, we had to do what we had to do,” Sprocket said, trying to justify the actions of the past.

“We were a _team..!_ ” Crowbar said with a loud tone of voice.

Sprocket was about to reply when the sound an intercom system clicked on.

 _“Hello, Crowbar_ _,”_ said a sultry, feminine voice. _“_ _Lovely paint job. Although, I did think you looked cuter in black.”_

Crowbar said nothing as she spoke.

 _“ Sprocket_ _,”_ the voice continued, _“_ _stop stalling. Finish the job and let’s go.”_

The power cell sighed and swiftly took out a standard mini-grade blaster from his inner subspace.

“Well, you heard the lady,” Sprocket said, almost sadly.

Crowbar wished he could say the same. And deep down, beneath his unresolved anger towards his old cohorts, there was a small part of him that actually did. But that part was being shouted over by his Autobot programming kicking in, screaming _“Protect the civilians!”_ Without hesitation, he pulled his own weapon from his subspace, something he hadn’t pulled out in a very, very long time. 

_It was his plasma knife._

Sprocket laughed.

“Oh, Crowbar. We don’t play with knives anymore.”

And with that, he shot him, straight through the Autobot insignia. The force of being blasted at such a point blank range sent him backwards. His back strut slammed against the base of one of the cranes that was still holding up one half of the Cosmic Sunrise. He slid down onto the floor, a trail of his own energon coating the industrial orange of the equipment. His optics flickered for a moment above his agape mouth, now dribbling out his life fluid.

Crowbar’s optics went offline.

 

* * *

 

He sighed.

Talking to Traffic was so infuriating, but he had gotten through to her and that was good enough for him. The only thing that worried him now was the Clean Up Crew. They seemed...dependable, but if he was to give his personal opinion about them he didn’t like them all that much.

Mostly Sprocket, who was too trigger happy for his own good.

Luckily, he trusted the other two just enough that they would keep him in line.

They were to report back to him after they had taken care of whoever was following Traffic and her crewmates, so he was now playing the lonely waiting game that he was so accustomed to. 

He had seen them a few times and only had his initial impressions of them to go by. Snaggletooth looked angry and ferocious, like he was ready to rough someone up at any given time. Arsenal, on the other hand, was always quiet, and looked...downtrodden.

He figured it might have something to do with Traffic. She was just...so very unpleasant. Out of all the associates he dealt with on a regular basis, she was his _least_ favorite. And with good reason. She was loud, full of herself, disgustingly flirty with him despite telling her off over and over again… 

Radar let out another sigh.

This was not what he had signed up for when he joined the Decepticons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't break my kneecaps...


	14. While They Were Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note from the author:
> 
> so my twitter account @CircuitSaloon was locked a few days ago and i'm still waiting to hear back from twitter support. i was going to wait until i got my account back up to post this chapter so i could make the obligatory chapter update tweet but since i don't know how long this is going to take, i decided to go ahead and post it anyway. hopefully by the time i get ready to post chapter 15 it'll be back up and running. if not...i'll have to figure something out.
> 
> anyway!! i hope you like this chapter. thanks for reading! <3

Airstrike was concerned. She worried over Crowbar. There was no doubt that Crowbar was handling himself just fine, as he had already proved himself before he had left. But the seeker couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that nestled deep in her spark.

She logged out of her computer and folded her reading spectacles, gently placing them inside of her subspace. As she left her personal office and entered the main employee office area, she looked over at Crowbar’s station to her left. She stood there for a moment, looking at the mech sitting in his chair.

It was Scooter.

Now, Scooter was...a lot of things. He was energetic, occasionally cocky, sometimes a little too lax for his own good.

Definitely Crowbar’s opposite in the workplace.

The small two-wheeler quickly set his pedes down onto the floor as soon as he noticed her standing there.

“Oh, hey boss!” he said in his usually cheery voice. “What’s shakin’?”  
  
“I’m stepping out for a bit,” she answered back, less enthusiastically. “If I’m needed, comm me.”

“You got it.”

With that, she left the office and made her way to the building’s elevator where she ascended to the rooftop of the building to transform and go for a short joy flight. 

She needed to clear her processor for a little while.

 

* * *

 

Cassette twisted the cubed glass in her servo, making sure to give every side a good rubdown with the dishrag she held in the other.

She sighed.

Business had slowed enough for her to notice since Counterfeit had left. He certainly was an attraction to the bar. People had been asking about him, wondering where he was and if he was ok. She would give them the same reply. “He’s on a little vacation. He works hard, ya know? Sunshine deserves to go out every once in a while.” And that was sufficient enough to get the questions to stop. She didn’t want to think too much about him being away.

It reminded her that _Shortfuse_ was also away.

She had tried comm’ing him a few times, during those late, lonely hours of the evening, only to get silence in return. She told herself that he was just simply too far away for her signals to reach, but that only pushed back the worrying thoughts instead of soothing them.

She was beginning to get lost in her thoughts when a figure sat down in front of her on the other side of the bar.

It was Airstrike.

“Bit early for a drink, isn’t it?” the ex-racer asked. The seeker gave a short chuckle and a half smile.

“Not early enough,” the jet joked. “Got anything weak? I’m on my lunch break and have a security department to go back to.”

Cassette laughed.

“One weak Energon Spritzer comin’ up.” 

Airstrike watched as Cassette made her drink, mixing in a little bit of this and that.

“Things have been a little quiet around here with our boys gone.”

“Have they?” Airstrike asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Cassette said, handing Airstrike her drink. “Folks don’t want to come drink at a joint where there isn’t a handsome monoformer to serve you or put his hands on you when you get too rowdy.”

“..I see,” Airstrike replied, not really sure what to say to that.

“What about you?” Cassette asked. “How have things been up at the security department without that little motorcycle rolling around?”

“It’s been,” Airstrike began, “different. He kept things...interesting, you could say.”

“Ha! I can imagine,” Cassette said. “I’ve heard a lot of things about him from some of my customers.”

“That, I don’t doubt,” Airstrike opined.

There was a moment of silence as one drank and the other began to dry off the next freshly washed glass. 

“Have you heard anything from them?” Cassette asked, making the silence short lived.

“No,” Airstrike answered back flatly, “but I have Synchron on standby. He was told to alert me if he heard anything.”

“That’s good,” the smaller mech said. “If it’s not too much of a hassle, I’d like to be notified if anything comes up. I miss my Shorty, y’know.”

“Of course,” the security chief affirmed, taking a gulp of her drink and setting the empty glass back down on the counter.

“Fancy another?” the bartender asked.

“I should probably get back to work..”

Cassette hummed back at her, focusing still on cleaning glasses.

“Well,” she began, watching Airstrike take some payment out of her subspace and placing it next to the empty glass, “I’ll be here if you need something a little stronger.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the seeker said, rising from her seat to leave. 

 

* * *

 

Synchron sat in his chair in front of the large computer monitor. He had a small cup of energon combined with his favorite additives resting on a smooth part of the terminal’s surface, where he stirred the flavored particles around with a stir stick he found in the break room of the Communications and Technology building.

He had finished going through and replying to his daily emails and figured a break was in order. He turned his hand palm up onto the console, taking care not to accidentally press a button or flip a switch. He watched through his optical screen as the panels on his wrist transformed away and revealed the fuel intake port. He let out a staticky sigh as he took his cup of fuel and slowly poured it into the cavity.

He missed having a mouth.

The wrist port’s flavor receptors were poor. He could barely taste anything that he consumed. He could always add high concentrations of additives to his food, which he did on occasion, but that tended to get expensive so he wasn’t able to do it often.

Synchron got distracted as he watched the pink pearlescent liquid flow into him. It reminded him of the internal energon that was spilled on the streets in front of the Senatorial Building back on Cybertron on that first day of revolution.

He was there as a protester, gathered together with thousands upon thousands of others who had something to say to the senate about labeling groups as ‘disposable.’ As it turned out, and he personally found out, the senate also believed that those who opposed them were also disposable.

Synchron, like many others, found himself captured by senatorial guards and taken away to be altered.

To become Empurata.

Apparently, he had gotten lost in these thoughts for far too long, as the energon he was giving himself began to overflow. He thought of a quick curse as he pulled his arm away from the terminal, not wanting to get any liquid on the equipment. He then watched as the pink fluid dripped through the seams of his forearm and onto the floor. It made him wonder...if he would’ve been better off being one of the ones that were slaughtered by agents of the senate.

He got up from his seat to go grab a cloth from the breakroom. He didn’t want to dwell on thoughts like that. It depressed him.

Being alive in this body that isn’t his, a living example of what happens when you oppose the senate and their laws or ideologies, was depressing enough for him.

After getting the cloth and cleaning up the mess he made, he sat back down and finished his drink. Once again, he found himself staring at the monitor. His instructions from Airstrike was to inform her of anything that came in regarding Crowbar and the others. A simple yet boring task, but he digressed. Days had gone by and there hadn’t been any sign or signal from the Cosmic Sunrise.

He hadn’t heard anything from Radar either, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. Ever since he had left to help manage the satellite’s energon outpost, his contact with the space station was rare and few. Radar only called to give routine status reports or special updates. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

He was busy, surely, and Synchron could respect that. But he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t miss Radar, that handsome piece of hardware.

Synchron wondered, if Crowbar wasn’t in the picture, would Radar be interested in him? Would Radar find him to be a desirable romantic partner? 

...Would anyone?

 

* * *

 

Not many people came to visit Mr. Wheeler at his warehouse. Then again, most people didn’t really have a need to. Dare it be said that nobody _wanted_ to visit the strange, old, half transformed segway and see his odd trinkets and baubles, old relics, or antiques. There was occasionally a customer or two, either just browsing or looking for something specific. If he didn’t have it, he knew someone who did. Or, he knew someone who knew someone who did, and so on and so forth.

Mr. Wheeler was big on connections. To him, the people you know, your relationships to them, and the connections you had were the most valuable things you could ever have in life.

Today, like any other, was a quiet day at the Warehouse. But that was alright. It gave him more time to clean up a few things, organize his wares in the front and back of the house, and remind himself of what he did and didn’t have. Mr. Wheeler wasn’t as young as he used to be, and on occasion his age did get the best of his processor and he’d forget something here or there. But for the most part, Mr. Wheeler was on top of things.

He had become a little more active than he normally was since his latest encounter with Counterfeit and the others. He didn’t get much social interaction since he arrived on the space station. Again, people just thought he was weird. But seeing Counterfeit again had brought up a lot of old memories. A lot of old feelings.

A lot of regrets.

Perhaps when Counterfeit returned, he could talk to him about their estranged relationship. Enough time had passed, he thought, that he would be able to do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this chapter was a bit filler-y, but i felt like it was important to have in-canon.


End file.
